


a lot like life

by elegantstupidity



Category: Pitch (TV 2016)
Genre: Eventual Smut, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Future Fic, Getting Together, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-19
Updated: 2018-06-19
Packaged: 2019-05-07 06:36:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 28,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14665371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elegantstupidity/pseuds/elegantstupidity
Summary: As it turned out, Ginny Baker's third season in the bigs would also be Mike Lawson's last.





	1. 3 - 159

**Author's Note:**

  * For [templemarker](https://archiveofourown.org/users/templemarker/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Baseball is a lot like life. It’s a day-to-day existence, full of ups and downs. You make the most of your opportunities in baseball as you do in life.” – Ernie Harwell

For once in Ginny Baker's professional life, pretty much everyone was in agreement.

Which—and this could not be emphasized enough—was not a state of affairs she was at all accustomed to. Particularly when she was the subject of that agreement. But for the first—and quite possibly last—time, the press and the team and the public and even Ginny herself were all in agreement. 2018 was going to be her year.

For the first time since she'd been called up, Ginny wasn't coming into the season with a million expectations, and just as many speculations, on her shoulders. She got to walk into Petco for the first time without a thought to proving all the doubters—herself included—wrong. She'd left the media frenzy of her rookie season, not to mention the injury that ended it, behind her and come back for a solid, steadier sophomore season. She'd put up with a stringent pitch count and conservative inning limit, even when she was dealing, and still managed to start 25 games and improve both her ERA and WHIP.

The only speculation about Ginny Baker now was about just how much better she could get.

It was the exact confidence boost she needed coming into her first start of the regular season. Even though the moves made by the front office over the winter had Ginny amped to play and the Padres had enjoyed a good spring training, it was always nice to have that little extra cushion. 

After all, there was no such thing as too many blessings, and while Ginny hated to actually count them, she had enough going for her that she didn't feel strange about going with the flow. This was going to be her season.

She should have known better.

It was exactly that confidence, maybe even hubris, that just begged the universe to come along and yank the rug out from under her feet.

When Ginny strolled into the clubhouse for her first start of the year to find a cluster of her teammates, all muttering discontentedly as they watched TV, she should have suspected her season was about to come crashing down around her.

As it was, it took fixing her attention up there herself, following Blip's unwavering gaze and troubled frown, that reality began to set in.

There on the screen, and probably every screen in the clubhouse if not most of San Diego, sat Mike Lawson, Padres captain and catcher. He looked far less enthused to be in front of the camera than usual. There was none of his customary coolness on display, none of the easy nonchalance earned from years in the limelight of the San Diego sports media. Instead, Mike held himself straight and tall, his jaw clenched tight enough that it was obvious even under the dark screen of his beard. His hands weren't in frame, but Ginny didn't have much trouble imagining the white-knuckled grip he must have on the edge of the table. 

Or, more likely, the sheet of paper holding his prepared statement.

"San Diego has been my home for the past 18 years, and I am beyond grateful for everything this team and this city has given me. I couldn't be prouder to have spent my career as a Padre. However, once my contract is up at the end of the season, I won't seek to resign with this, or any, team."

The implication of his words punched low in Ginny's gut even as her mind wheeled, trying to come up with an alternate outcome.  

No such luck.

On screen, Mike looked up from his comments—distantly, Ginny thought about the fact that he'd taken the time to write these words down; God knew how many eleventh hour rally speeches he'd given straight off the cuff, but this needed to be committed to paper first—and into the lens of the camera and said, "This will be my last season as a ballplayer."

In the press room, this announcement was met with a riot of questions and flashbulbs, lighting up Mike Lawson all alone on the stage.

In the clubhouse, the reaction was more subdued but no less shocked; Lawson had arrived at this decision without input from any of his teammates.

Just looking around, that much was clear. Resigned surprise colored most of the Padres veterans' faces. Most of them had never played in an MLB without Mike Lawson; it hadn't occurred to them such a thing was even possible. Sure, they'd all known that their captain's contract was up at the end of the year, but none of them had really considered that he might not re-sign. Mike had posted some career-high numbers last year in spite of splitting more time behind the plate with Livan. Maybe he'd spent a bit more time on the concussion list than anyone liked, but it was better safe than sorry when it came to head injuries, and he'd always insisted he was fine.

The rest of the questions and Mike's stoic answers faded into a buzzing static in Ginny's head, overtaken as they were by the thundering throb of her pulse. It echoed in her ears, a driving, rushing beat that just would not stop. She had to tell herself to stop grinding her teeth and then concentrate until her jaw actually followed orders. Woodenly, she drew away from the rest of her teammates. She didn't retreat all the way to her private cubby because she didn't want to attract attention almost as much as she didn't want to be drawn into anyone's conversation about this development. Mostly because she wasn't sure what to say, or if she could say anything at all. Ginny struggled to sort her thoughts into some semblance of order, avoiding Livan's cursory glance and Blip's more probing one all the while. If she didn't make eye contact, they wouldn't be able to see whatever was building up in her stomach and beginning to claw its way up her throat. It felt like the onset of panic, except for the crystal clear portion of her brain that knew without a doubt it wasn't.

She was too pissed for panic.

Pissed because that was easier than the well of sadness that had opened up inside her, just begging to be filled with tears.

What were the Padres without Mike Lawson? What would Ginny be without her captain, her friend? Somehow, she'd never thought she'd have to find out. She'd just assumed Mike would be there, standing at the top of the dugout to see her off the field at the end of her career.

Apparently not.

Soon enough, the press conference was over and the regular beat reporters, not to mention the journalists who'd come in with the Rockies, began to filter into the Padres Clubhouse, no doubt searching for some color commentary to go with whatever they'd write about Mike Lawson's surprise announcement.

Usually, the day of a start, Ginny avoided the press, and they didn't come looking for her. They extended the same courtesy to every starting pitcher, but back in her rookie season, when even her most offhand comments were spun into guaranteed clickbait, she hadn't liked to tempt them and kept out of their way as much as possible. It quickly became routine. As soon as the press were granted access to the main hub of the clubhouse, Ginny disappeared from view, taking the opportunity to get her head on straight and her mind sharp for the upcoming game.

Today, however, she wanted to do more than tempt them. She wanted to flag down every last person with a press pass and give voice to the burning disappointment and anger bubbling away in her gut. She wanted to tell them all that if Lawson wanted to leave, then fine. He could go and good fucking riddance. She—and the team—wouldn't miss him even a little.

She reined the impulse in, but it was more of a battle than Ginny'd like to admit. Anyway, it wouldn't have been that satisfying. 

Because while the members of the press eagerly filed into the clubhouse, one person remained conspicuously absent. 

 

  

In the run-up to game time, all through on-field warmups and BP and last minute strategy sessions and even the customary team dinner, Mike's presence in the clubhouse proper was nominal at best. Based on the way harried front office staff kept cutting through the hub, it was clear where at least part of his time was passed. The rest of it, however, rather than taking the opportunity to address the team, Mike spent holed up in Al's office and silently letting one of the trainer's coax the knots out of his back.

(While Ginny could acknowledge that she'd eventually need to get used to a life with the Padres without Mike Lawson around, she hadn't thought the process would start so soon. But that was what this felt like. Like he figured he'd throw everyone into the deep end to see that they could swim along without him, even if it felt more like drowning at first.

Ginny wasn't wasn't sure it was just a feeling.)

For someone who'd just announced the toll of the game had gotten to be too much for his body, however, Mike Lawson was remarkably spry. Not once did Ginny manage to corner him so she could— Honestly, she didn't even know what she wanted. Answers, probably. Not that she was going to get any. Mike had had plenty of chances to explain his thinking: yesterday as they ran batters, at the Padres' Welcome Dinner last week, almost any time they'd spent together during Spring Training, over the offseason...

But he hadn't.

Which was just goddamn fine. If he wanted to avoid his teammates, that was  _just fine_ and, anyway, two could play at that game.

So, Ginny disappeared into her dressing room after the third failed attempt to catch her captain's eye and didn't come out until it was time to head to the bullpen for her final warmup. She didn't pause to consider the nearly nauseating swirl of relief and disappointment that Younger, the regular bullpen catcher, was on hand to warm her up, just got through her side and ignored the way Buck's eyebrows climbed his forehead as he checked out the reading on the speed gun. Since he didn't say anything, just jerked his head towards the bullpen door, Ginny took her cue and jogged out on the field to take her place on the mound.

Once she was there, Ginny did her best to let her emotions drain away, carried off by the cool breeze and the roar of a home crowd.

She almost succeeded, too.

And why shouldn't she? It was an easy enough play to execute: Whatever you do, don't stop long enough for your thoughts to catch up.

From the moment the umpire called, "Play ball!" Ginny was on the move. On the field, this was a cake walk. She had a job to do, and she did it well. On the mound, sinking into the rhythm of the game, the mental and physical war she waged with each batter, she could ignore the fact that it was Mike making the calls. She could block out everything but his mitt and the signs he put down until he was just a pair of hands waiting to receive a pitch. In the batter's box, it was even easier. So what if her OBP had never dreamed of nearing .200? No one could ever say Ginny Baker didn't take her at bats seriously, and if she approached these with even more ferocious intensity than usual, it was unlikely anyone would think it had anything to do with a desire to keep her mind firmly occupied by baseball.

Off the field, things were slightly more complex, but she managed nevertheless.

Blip and Al and more than a few other teammates eyed her warily as she bounced around the dugout, going from bench to fence and back again, refusing to remain in place lest her thoughts catch up with her. Ginny ignored them. She ignored them so thoroughly that she was actually surprised when it was Mike who broke into her tenuous peace, shouldering his way in between her and Omar at the dugout fence in the bottom of the fourth to say, "You're supposed to be sitting, Baker."

Her jaw clenched, but she didn't take her eyes off Dusty at the plate. "I don't want to sit," was all she said when it was clear Mike wasn't going to leave without an answer.

Rather than leave it at that, continue loosening the reins, he frowned down at her. Ginny, in spite of the fact that she hadn't once looked his way, could feel the force of it against the side of her face and barely kept herself from turning to frown back. Rob might have gotten over his crush on her, but all too often she found his camera directed straight at her. And she wasn't about to reward him by picking a fight with her captain for him to film.

No matter how much she wanted to.

"You're gonna tire yourself out," Mike gruffly insisted, "and the bullpen's pretty wiped after yesterday."

"I'm not the one who's gotten tired," she bit back, finally looking him in the eye. Judging by the way Omar's eyes went wide over their captain's shoulder and he quickly backed away from the confrontation, Ginny'd probably given away too much about her current state of mind. However, since Dusty chose that moment to tap a short liner into center, driving Salvi around third and into home, Mike didn't get a chance to reply.

He didn't get a chance to speak to her again until the top of the sixth, in fact.

Not that he wasn't talking _about_ her in the interim.

Just as she bounded up the stairs to take the field again, Ginny overheard Mike mutter to Al, "I'll let you know when she's done."

It was that, over everything else that had happened today that turned the heat up on Ginny's simmering anger and frustration and hurt and made it boil over. She stalked up the mound and somehow made it through her warmup pitches without once looking into her catcher's eyes, prepared to get through this inning with something like grace under pressure. If Lawson or Al or _anyone_ wanted to pull her from this game before she'd decided she was good and done, they could just go ahead and try.

Then, he had to go and call for her fastball.

Mike and Ginny had, often enough over the past three seasons, hashed out the efficacy of her fastball. He insisted that it was important to lean on her secondary pitches if she didn't want anyone cottoning on to the trick of her screwgie. Ginny argued that there wouldn't be a screwgie for anyone to pick apart if she got sent down for letting everyone tee up on the slowest fastball in the league.

Apparently, today was going to be the latest battle in the long war over Ginny's arsenal.

Mike put down the signal for the third batter of the inning, one out already on the board and one man on base. Ginny shook him off, so he put it down again. She thought about shaking her head again, but if she could avoid a mound visit and Lawson laying into her over respecting his authority as captain and catcher, she would. So, she nodded.

Fine. Since he thought he knew better than her, he could damn well have her fastball.

Ginny set herself up, staring straight into Mike's mitt. This time, though, she couldn't block out the man behind it. She couldn't ignore how fucking furious he'd made her, how blithely he'd torn apart her plans for the future—

Loud enough for Ginny to hear 60 feet away, the pitch thudded into the back of the webbing with a deeply satisfying  _thwack_. The way Lawson's eyes went wide behind his mask and he had to flare his glove a couple times was even better.

That dark glee faded, though, after her third straight fastball blew straight by the batter and sent him back to his dugout, shaking his head in disbelief all the way. Rather than toss the ball back, Mike rose from his crouch and began hauling himself out to conference with his pitcher. Ginny watched him come, grateful no one could see the way her stomach knotted around itself with every step he took.

"You eat your Wheaties today, Baker?" Mike joked, easy as anything as his spikes dug into the clay of the mound.

Taken aback just enough to reply honestly, she said, "No, why?"

"'Cause your fastball just hit the 90s three times in a row, and if it's not what you had for breakfast, then I should probably see how you're doing. How's the arm?"

“It's fine." Ginny held her glove out for the ball, but he didn't hand it off. She huffed and ignored the way his lips quirked to the side like he found her amusing. She didn't want to be goddamn amusing. "You’re seriously wasting a visit on this?”

“Is it a waste to make sure you haven’t replaced your arm with a cannon?” he drawled, far too casual for Ginny’s liking. He'd just announced his retirement today. He didn't get to act like this game was just like any other. “Hate to forfeit the game because you decided—“

“To what?" Ginny spat, once again letting too much of her anger bubble up to the surface. Well, at least she was still screening her mouth with her glove. Still, she had no doubt every commentator tonight would have little trouble reading her body language to determine just how pissed she was. "Flirt with a potential PED suspension?”

He scowled back, all pretense of friendly banter dropped at her snarl. “Of course not.”

"Then get out of my face and let me do my job."

Mike's eyes narrowed, and if this had been two years ago, Ginny might have regretted her words. Now, though, she set her jaw and tipped her chin up, just begging him to challenge her.

He didn't. There was a certain amount of confusion in his gaze, but that cleared away the longer he looked at her. Ginny hadn't had much occasion to curse the fact that she and Mike could read each other so goddamn well—on the field it was almost always a blessing, a secret weapon if they ever needed one—but she found herself resenting the hell out of it now. There was too much understanding—he saw too deep into her and always had—in her captain's eyes as he worked his jaw and grudgingly handed the ball over. He backed away from her but didn't turn as he trudged down the mound. For all she knew, he stared her down the entire way back to the plate.  Ginny kept her focus on her toes as he went and didn't allow herself to look him in the eyes once before Al clapped her on the shoulder and told her he was handing the game over to the bullpen.

Ginny took this news in stride. She watched her team wrap up the game and secure her first win of the season. She ran the gauntlet of the press and got through her cool down routine. She took a shower and declined invitations to hit the town without bothering to ask who else was going. She went home.

If she ignored the way her captain's gaze followed her the entire time, right up until the clubhouse doors swung shut behind her back and cut her off from everyone, she didn't think anyone could blame her.

 

 

Ginny'd gotten through her evening routine—face washed, teeth brushed, curls tamed, sand washed from her legs from the impromptu run her trainers definitely weren't going to hear about—and shuffled into her room to collapse into bed with her Netflix account. There was a half-baked plan filtering through her mind to find something sad to watch, something that would justify the several bouts of tears she'd given into since arriving home. It wasn't the way she'd imagined spending the evening, but there were a lot of things about today that hadn't gone as expected.  

Before she could queue something up, her phone began to vibrate on her bedside table. She glanced over when it became clear it wasn't just a text and felt the world pause around her as she registered the name displayed on the screen.

**Mike**

Under his name, a little dim and fuzzy was the picture Ginny'd assigned as his contact photo: Mike fast asleep on some red-eye flight, bits of napkin stuck in his beard from his teammates trying to score field goals in his open mouth.

(She knew for a fact that he'd retaliated by using a picture for her contact info that he'd snapped last April Fool's Day when Salvi and Butch staged an impromptu silly string fight. She'd made the most disgusted face, having caught a full shot of green foam string in her mouth as she howled with laughter at Livan getting ganged up on, and Mike had captured it for posterity. He'd refused to delete it, even when she practically climbed onto his shoulders trying to do the job herself.)

It'd been a long time since she saw that picture because they hadn't done  _this_ —these evening phone calls, a recap of the day's events and discussions—in a long time. Since before Ginny's elbow blew and Mike disappeared to LA for that offseason. Which wasn't to say they hadn't talked since then. They were friends, and close ones, too. Just not friends who talked on the phone. Especially not late at night with one or both of them stretched out in pajamas or in bed, letting the darkness trick them into believing their conversations were any more intimate than they really were.

Which was probably for the best.

Ginny stared so long at the phone that she almost let it ring out. Only almost.

Before she could tell herself not to, she had it pressed to her ear, silence spooling out over the line.

She didn't know what to say, and neither, it seemed, did Mike.

After what felt like an age, he said, "Hey."

"Hey," Ginny echoed back, feeling as shy and uncertain as she'd been the first time Mike ever called her out of the blue. 

Like he could read her thoughts without even needing to look her in the face to do it, Mike said, "I heard what you said about me."

As expected, in her post-game interviews, there were plenty of questions about her newfound velocity. Throwing straight 90s fastballs for a strikeout was new territory for Ginny Baker and certainly required discussion. She'd played coy, walking the line between serious and silly with all the aplomb of a woman who'd gotten her media training from Amelia Slater. By the time she'd exhausted that topic, and hopefully the journalists who still needed to make their deadline, Ginny'd provided more than enough soundbites to eat up a few column inches. Though, she was well aware that even her pitching feats tonight were going to pale in comparison to the revelation that Mike Lawson was planning to hang up his gear for good.

As if just thinking about it had tempted fate, one more question was thrown into the ring.

"Ginny, you have any thoughts about your Lawson's pending retirement? What's it going to be like next season without your mentor?"

There was something strange about naming Mike her  _mentor_ for all that it wasn’t precisely untrue. She hadn't argued with the term but didn't address it either. Better not to give the press anything to speculate over when Ginny wasn't quite sure where she stood on the issue herself. Nonetheless, she gave a far more diplomatic answer than she would've before the game began. Not because she really believed it, but because she was too exhausted to deal with the truth and its inevitable blowback. It wasn't that she wasn't still livid, still hurt, she just didn't have the energy for anger.

“Lawson’s got a lot of influence in the clubhouse, over everyone. We’ll be sad to say goodbye, but we’ve still got 159 games before we do. And I’m sure the team’ll work hard to earn a few more than that to send him off on a high note. Thanks, guys.”

Ginny'd flashed a smile like she hadn't been cut off at the knees a few hours ago and extricated herself from the huddle of reporters, ducking into her changing room in just a few short strides.

She hadn't expected Mike to never hear that statement, but there wasn't anything in it that made her think he'd need to call her about it, either.

Swallowing down the dryness of her throat, she shrugged and hoped it would lend her words the casual air she so desperately needed. "I'm sure I wasn't the only one talking about you."

"Probably not," he agreed. And yet, he wasn't calling any of those other people. Or maybe he had. Clearly, Ginny didn't know him as well as she thought she did.

"If you're calling to complain I wasn't nice enough, then you should just be glad I didn't go with my first answer."

Mike's rumbling chuckle came down the line, and Ginny refused to acknowledge the complex mess of emotion it drew out of her. "And what was your first answer?"

She didn't reply. The silence stretched between them until Mike blew out a long breath and said, chagrined, "Yeah, I figured."

Frustration sparked anew. He figured? "You should have told me. And the rest of the team." _But mostly me._ "We shouldn't have found out from a press conference."

He snorted, dismissive. "Forgive me for not prioritizing everyone else's feelings when I had to go out and announce I'm too fucking old to do the only thing I'm good at." Silence hung heavily once more until Mike laughed, a raw, unamused huff that made Ginny ache. "You're not the only one this is hard on, you know."

"It's not hard on me," she lied.

"Sure it isn't," he agreed, like he didn't believe her at all.

 

Rather than dig herself a deeper hole, she asked, "How long have you been planning this? I thought you were feeling fine during Spring Training."

He laughed again, though there wasn't much more humor in the sound. "You saw exactly how much it took to get me out on the field every day."

"But you still got out there!"

"What else am I supposed to do? Bow out of my contract early?" he asked, like that wasn't a perfectly reasonable course if he really were injured.

Which she pointed out. If he didn't want her to poke holes in his logic, he shouldn't have called her. Ginny was glad he had, even if he didn't seem to appreciate her willingness to call him on his shit.

"I'm fine," Mike groused, cagy enough to make her wonder if his doctor would agree. "Good enough to play the rest of the season. But you've gotta know that the Padres aren't gonna sign me again."

"There's always free agency."

His sigh, when it came, was ragged and sad. Ginny could practically see the way he must've just rubbed his hand across his face. It was what he always did when he was tired and frustrated and ready to call it a day. The image of Mike, alone in his big glass house, summoned up a lump to hang heavily in her throat.

"Ginny," he breathed, which wasn't fair at all since it suddenly felt like she couldn't. Her lungs had seized up, refusing to draw in more air just from the way her name rolled off his tongue. That telltale heat behind her eyes started up again and she only just managed to hold in a sniff. "Even if another team made an offer on an old catcher with bum knees and a creaking back, I wouldn't take it. There's only one team I want to be on when it's all said and done; I'm going out a Padre."

"That's just good taste, old man," she said because everything else that crowded her brain felt far too dangerous. When he chuckled this time, it was lit with the familiar warmth that Ginny had grown so accustomed to. It didn't matter if he was laughing at her or with her, she just wanted to hear more of it. "I don't think I'm ready for you to go."

"Good thing you've still got me, then."

"For six more months," she finished, not even trying to hide the bitterness in her tone.

There was a long pause, dead enough that Ginny pulled her phone away from her ear to see if she'd somehow lost the call. She hadn't.

Phone back at her ear, she caught the tail end of another sigh. This one was harder to read and reignited Ginny's lingering wariness; did she know MIke as well as she thought?

When Mike spoke, though, he sounded as cocksure as ever. "Only if we don't make the postseason. And I heard a little birdie say that my team was gonna work real hard to get me there this year."

"A little birdie, huh?"

"Yeah. A real chirpy one. Can't carry a tune to save her life."

"Oh, God. You're the worst," she laughed, curling around a pillow and smiling into the phone almost in spite of herself. "You know that, right?"

Mike didn't argue. "Yeah, Baker," he said. "I know."

 


	2. 46 - 116

The thing about baseball season was that there wasn't room for hurt feelings or pride or really anything that wasn't dirt and leather and chasing a pennant. There wasn't even time to savor the little things of the game—the smell of a freshly oiled glove, a new grass stain on your knee, striking out someone who'd homered in their last at bat—not when there were 162 of them to play and maybe half of them to win.

So, the clubhouse rolled over on Mike's news—and his failure to share it with them first—pretty quickly. Even Ginny did her best to let it go so she could enjoy her remaining time as Mike Lawson's teammate.

If the rest of his teammates didn't respect him so much, it could've gotten ugly, but they'd all come a long way since that failed trade to Chicago.   

Their forgiveness was encouraged along by Mike's willingness to concede that he could have handled the whole ordeal gracefully. Well, that and the fact that he agreed to match every fine paid out in Kangaroo Court this season, effectively doubling the discretionary booze budget.

"You mooks better throw me a legendary retirement party," was all he'd said when his offer was accepted after judicious review. 

The season moved on, and the Padres did, too. They had to or they risked falling out of contention only six weeks into the year.

It was just the reality of the game: baseball waited for no one.

 

 

Except, maybe, for Evelyn Sanders.

 

 

Evelyn was not about to let anything, her husband's profession included, keep her from throwing her boys the best birthday party they could dream of. Which was exactly why she planned Gabe and Marcus's pool party during a long home stand, smack dab in the middle of a rare day off. She wanted as many able bodies on hand as she could get when she had to open the doors to her home to a bunch of third graders and wasn't above drafting the Padres into service.

"You try facing down a horde of 9-year-olds armed only with pizza and sugar-free juice, Ginny."

"I'm pretty sure I'm going to," she'd said, not even minding.

Evelyn had just grinned and kissed her cheek. "You know me so well. Party starts at noon. Come over at ten to help me set up."

Which, of course, was exactly what Ginny did. When Evelyn Sanders gave an order, she expected it to be followed to the letter. Often, she was obliged.

Upon arrival, she was immediately put to work slicing fruit as Ev, not a hair out of place or looking at all like a woman just two hours away from welcoming chaos into her home, adjusted the contents of her refrigerator to make room for the cake that Blip was supposed to be bringing home any minute.

"Did he bring the boys with him?" she asked, idly worried that there might be no cake left by the time they got back.

Sensing her train of thought, Evelyn snorted. "No, they're out in the yard helping Mike set up all the games."

Ginny's hand didn't slip upon hearing that news, but she did pause with her knife stuck halfway into a peach. As casually as she could, she resumed cutting. "Lawson's here?"

"Yeah," she replied, giving no indication that she noticed Ginny's hesitation, "and he brought a truly giant present with him, so you might be replaced as their favorite Padre in the very near future."

"Only until they find out I got them paintball guns."

"You're funny," deadpanned Evelyn, not even bothering to look up from her last minute adjustments to the party schedule.

"Who's funny?" came Blip's voice from the door into the garage. In his arms was a spectacularly oversized cake box. Ginny'd heard all about the chocolate cake inside, and her mouth was already watering.

"Who d'you think?" Evelyn said, craning around her husband's burden to plant her lips on his cheek. He was quick enough to turn and get a real kiss instead, paying no heed to how heavy a cake that big had to be as he greeted his wife. Not that Ev seemed to mind.

Ginny averted her eyes when it became clear her friends were settling in for a good, long greeting. The Sanders may be #couplegoals, but that didn't mean she wanted to see them prove why.

"Eww!" came a chorus of voices from the patio door, startling Ev and Blip out of their tonsil hockey. Gabe and Marcus looked at their parents with disgust clear on their faces. Behind them, blocking their path back into the relative safety of the yard and looking more amused than anything else, was Mike.

Mike, who was also looking entirely too at ease playing babysitter, flannel rumpled, sleeves rolled up, and cap perched backwards on his head. It was a good look on him. A _really_ good look. Which was definitely not something Ginny was going to give voice to today. Not even when Mike caught sight of her at the island and grinned, tipping up his chin in silent greeting. She automatically nodded back but busied herself with a mango rather than risk staring a little too long. It wasn't like she had to. The image of Mike Lawson sweaty and casually dishevelled was going to be burned into her brain for a long time.

"You're not gonna do that during the party, right?" demanded Marcus, his brother nodding his vehement agreement.

"You'd hate to scar the kiddos for life," Mike drawled. He pushed the reluctant boys inside. "C'mon, you're not gonna catch cooties."

The twins seemed skeptical at best, but they allowed themselves to be propelled in.

"No catching cooties at all," Evelyn warned, pointing a finger at her sons as her husband stored the cake in the fridge. "Not until you're out of my house, at least."

"Gross, mom."

"Yeah. Gross, mom," Blip laughed. He leaned across the island for high fives from his sons. With his other hand, unseen to his progeny, he gave Ev's ass a quick squeeze. Ginny couldn't help but grin at their easy flirting, and made the mistake of looking up. Straight into Mike's eyes. His own grin, uncharacteristically shy, was enough to make her cheeks warm and heart flutter. But not nearly enough to make her look away

Not even when Ev rolled her eyes and shooed the kids out of the kitchen. "I see how it is. Speaking of gross, go make sure your rooms are clean, please."

With just the adults left, it should've been the cue Ginny and Mike needed to stop whatever eye flirting was happening. Not that Ginny was sure it really was flirting. Mike looked at her like this an awful lot and had for a long time. It might just be his face.

For her part, she went back to slicing fruit, ducking her head until her hair swept across her cheeks and hid any flush that might have gathered. Mike, though, had always had a different sense of what was appropriate.

He leaned on the counter directly across from her. Even if his fingers didn't sneak up to the edge of the cutting board to swipe a bit of mango, she would've known he was there. Ginny was just attuned to Mike. Which, now that she thought about it, was probably why his announcement at the beginning of the season felt like such a punch to the gut. Did she know Mike as well as she thought she did if she'd never once caught on to what he was planning? She just wasn't sure. Ever since he'd announced his intentions, Ginny'd had to pause and second guess her every expectation about him. Whenever she thought she could predict Lawson's reaction to something, on the field or in the clubhouse or just going about their daily routines, she was forced to consider otherwise. Maybe she'd overestimated their connection, their understanding of one another. Maybe she didn't know him the way she thought she did.

(The fact that her first instinct was usually right wasn't enough to make her stop.)

Pushing her doubts away, Ginny leveled her captain with an exasperated stare. "Do I seriously need to tell you to keep your hands to yourself?"

He smirked like the cocksure asshole he was. "No, I definitely remember," he said. Through the dark sweep of his eyelashes, the lingering once over he treated her to didn't just hint that he wasn't talking about the fruit.

Veering hard away from the impulse to encourage him, especially with that suspicious frown beginning to dawn on Blip's face just a few feet away, Ginny shook her head. "Just watch your fingers, Lawson. I'm chopping here."

His smirk took on a more genuine slant. "Anyone else, and I'd think that was a joke."

Ginny scoffed. "I'm not going to cut off your fingers."

"Not on purpose. You can't help being a disaster in the kitchen."

"I'm not a disaster!"

"Tell that to that pineapple you're butchering."

To be fair, Ginny hadn't been paying much attention to her task, too distracted by the way Mike's toned arms braced him against the counter. She looked down at the bedraggled pineapple, only half skinned, and back up at Mike. He laughed, head tipping back to reveal the line of his throat and his bobbing adam's apple. It was a lot to take in. Which was probably why Ginny didn't have the presence of mind to protest when he rounded the island to take up a spot—probably too close given the way his body heat radiated immediately into hers—at her side, plucked the knife from her fingers, and murmured, "Let me show you how it's done."

Well, when he put it like that, who was she to argue?

 

 

"Go round up the kids for me? It's almost time for cake."

"Aye aye, captain." Ginny saluted for good measure.

Absently, Ev replied, "Don't let Lawson hear you say that."

Ginny didn't think she'd made any kind of face in response, didn't even think her friend had looked up from her color-coded schedule to see if she had. However, the way the quiet of the kitchen descended into expectant tension, she was probably wrong. And there was no way Ginny was just imagining the speculative way Ev's eyes narrowed or the way her attention had gone razor-sharp, entirely honed in on her prey: Ginny herself.

"What?" she finally asked, raising her gaze to Evelyn's. She could hear the defensiveness in that one word and hated to give over any more ammunition, but she had to say  _something_. It was too dangerous to leaved Ev with a long, charged silence; there was no knowing what kind of story she'd cook up on her own.

"You tell me." For her part, Evelyn did a remarkable impression of someone only mildly interested in the subject at hand. One beautifully manicured brow lifted, nonchalant. Still, there was no masking the spark of excitement in her eyes, the scent of good gossip already caught.

"There's nothing to tell."

"Yeah, okay, G. You've tried that on me before. It wasn't true then, and it's definitely not true now."

Evelyn wasn't wrong. About any of it. 

"So, what's going on there?" Ev had asked once last season, having just witnessed Mike make Ginny nearly collapse in a fit of giggles, having been nearly glued to her side almost all evening, only to wander off, looking smug, when Sonny and Blip called him over to settle a bet. Ginny'd hardly even clocked Evelyn's approach, which was what made her sputter and flounder for a response. It was surprise, not guilt that made her reflexively deny any knowledge of what Evelyn was driving at, she and Noah were still dating, remember? (Though they'd been on the rocks and it wasn't much after that night that they finally called it quits.) Her friend had raised a skeptical eyebrow but obligingly dropped the subject. And it'd stayed dropped.

Until now, apparently.

Ginny shrugged. She didn't like keeping things from Evelyn, but it felt safer not to talk about her feelings—if that was even an adequate word for the unprecedented tangle of emotion Mike Lawson regularly inspired in her—or Mike's or what might come of them. Before this season, a future where Mike might be more than her teammate and friend had felt so distant. It felt like jinxing it to say anything about it.

Which, of course, wasn't going to satisfy Evelyn.

"He's retiring," Ginny offered, almost hoping her friend would draw her own conclusions. If only so she wouldn't have to say them herself

"He is."

Funny enough, it was Evelyn's lack of response, her utter failure to infer anything (out loud at least), that made Ginny feel comfortable saying, "And we won't be teammates anymore."

"Do you think that's why he's retiring?"

"No," she said, firm. Whatever Mike might feel about her, she was confident that it wouldn't overshadow his dedication to the game. "I mean, maybe it could be a nice—"

Evelyn didn't even give her a chance to finish her thought, her eyes going wide and excited as her hands flapped in the air, hair tossing as she bounced twice on her toes. A short, high-pitched squeal, cut off behind her teeth before it could really hit open air, was the only verbal indicator of her excitement. Ginny couldn't help but laugh, her cheeks going hot in pleased embarrassment.

"Sorry," Ev said, breathless and not even a little apologetic.

Ginny snorted. "It's okay. And, I mean— There really isn't anything to tell you. We haven't talked about—"

"You still haven't talked about it?" she demanded. "Ginny, it's been a year and a half! You're seriously telling me it's never come up?"

"Not really."

Sensing an evasion when she heard one, Evelyn's eyes narrowed. "Not really?" she repeated. "Explain."

Ginny shifted and bit her lip. It was true that she and Mike had never talked about that night at Boardner's; she'd told him they wouldn't, and he hadn't pushed it. Actually, she'd done better than not talk about it. Ginny’d been good. She’d been so fucking good. Not once in the past year and a half had she flirted—deliberately at least—with Lawson.

(Which, from the safety of the present, she could admit to having done once or twice or a hundred times that rookie season.)

And Mike, true to his promise, had followed her lead.

Except. Maybe there'd been a little un-deliberate flirting—more than a little if she was still being honest. Still, she didn't think it was her fault that sometimes, entirely unintentionally, she found herself hip-deep in a conversation that with anyone else would've ended with their tongues in each other's mouths and her panties on the floor. Which, with Mike, probably would have required much more than a talk. 

Finally, too aware of Evelyn's expectant gaze, she shrugged. "Not sure that I can."

Evelyn's expression went sympathetic, and she reached out to pull Ginny into a quick hug which Ginny was more than happy to return. Even when her friend murmured, "When you figure it out, I expect all the details," right in her ear.

"Never thought you wouldn't."

They hadn't quite convinced themselves to let go when the other subject of their conversation, like he sensed someone talking about him and needed to witness and add his two cents, made an appearance. "You two need me to come back later? I can run interference on Blip away if you're trying to keep him in the dark."

"Cross comedian off your list of post-retirement hobbies, Lawson," Evelyn volleyed back, releasing Ginny and less than subtly propelling her towards the grinning catcher.

"I'll dedicate my first set to you, Ev."

She scoffed in disgust. "Ginny, take him with you."

Ginny did not have to be told twice. Grabbing hold of his shirt—and, no, not noticing how good it felt bunched between her fingers—she tugged him out of the kitchen and onto the patio to start corralling kids for cake and presents. It probably would have been easier if they'd split up to do it, but once Mike's arm settled around her shoulders, pulling her closer than was strictly companionable, there was no chance of that happening.

Now, the only thing to do was figure out if she could keep him there forever.

  


	3. 84- 78

There were days that Ginny would have paid good money to never have to put up with Mike Lawson again. Days that she was sure that if she had to look at his smug, condescending face for one more minute, she'd tell Amelia to get her the hell out of San Diego as fast as possible.

Today was definitely one of those days. Only worse, because today Ginny was halfway sure she actually meant it.

She slammed into her changing room, door banging off the cinderblock wall and heedless of the fact that she was telegraphing her current mood. Hell, she might as well just announce it for everyone in the greater San Diego area to hear; it'd be more subtle.

Who the fuck cared? Not Ginny, that was for sure.

It didn't matter that there was at least one journalist somewhere in the clubhouse, interviewing Livan about his first All-Star selection. It didn't matter that Ginny was supposed to be out on the field, shagging balls for BP. It didn't matter because she was too goddamn furious to worry about what she _should_ be doing.

Furious and hurt.

How many times this season would she feel this way? She could take it if it were just another loss, another bad day on the mound, but she wasn't even scheduled to pitch today. She'd done that two days ago. 

Which worked out just perfectly for Amelia. 

Her agent—and Ginny herself, it had to be admitted; their issues weren't just a one way street—may have finally learned some boundaries, but she wouldn't be Amelia Slater if she didn't have Ginny running over all of Southern California in her scant free time, building the Ginny Baker Empire.

"C'mon, G," she'd coaxed, lowering her phone to her lap to make actual eye contact. Amelia'd been fielding requests for comments about Ginny's third selection to the National League All-Star team, her first as a managerial pick, all afternoon. The fact that she took even a short break from her laser focus was more than enough to get Ginny's attention. "This is an easy one. Just a quick appearance at the opening of this restaurant. You'll be in and out in an hour."

"Amelia, I don't like doing these—"

"During the season, I know," she'd assured. "But this isn't just any party. The restaurant is owned by a women-run co-op, the first of its kind in San Diego. They're working closely with local farmers to create their menu and already have a successful mentorship program for young women in culinary school." 

Ginny'd mulled this over. It did sound right up her alley; most of her charitable causes were at least connected to supporting women in male-dominated fields. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad. Just as long as—

"I don't have to take a date, right?"

Amelia, had she been anyone else, would've rolled her eyes. As it was, she just shrugged, an elegant lift of her shoulders that left her crisp blouse without the whisper of a wrinkle. "If you want to bring a date—"

"I don't," Ginny'd replied, though it wasn't quite true. Just, the date she'd want to bring was as off-limits as they come.

She hadn't been sure if the slight flicker of Amelia's mouth was amusement or concern, but her agent remained unruffled. "That's fine, G."

Perfect. Ginny could feel herself being swayed. Just one more thing to determine.

"Their food is good, though, right?"

Amelia had laughed, professional shell dropping away. Even after everything they'd been through, and it had not been all smooth sailing since they'd picked up their agent-client relationship, Ginny was grateful for Amelia's presence in her life. She was even more grateful they were still friends. "I'm sure you'll find something."

Of course, Amelia was right. The food was delicious, and there was just the right mix of local star power and people actually responsible for the success of San Diego's newest high-end culinary experience. Ginny found that she was able to relax, buoyed by a Padres win earlier that afternoon, and mostly enjoy herself. Even if she'd posed for more selfies than she could count and was unfortunately caught as she left for home by a lone photographer who apparently had nothing better to do on a Thursday evening, it was a good night.

It really was too bad her good mood hadn't survived today.

In fact, it seemed utterly impossible that Ginny had strolled into the clubhouse just this afternoon with a bounce in her step and a grin for everyone she came across. She'd gotten a little bit of ribbing from the guys about the source of her good mood; apparently, that single paparazzo hadn't wasted any time in getting his shots of Ginny Baker leaving a restaurant out to every gossip blog in the solar system. The fact that she'd been trailed by some up-and-coming Hollywood type—and also that more than a few shots made it look like they were leaving together and almost everyone and their mothers were busy breathlessly speculating about whether or not they had—didn't help matters, but she'd dealt with worse. Her teammates didn't really care if she was sleeping around—except for the time some blind item implied she'd eloped with one of the Chrises and the team passionately debated which one it should've been—and Ginny didn't really care if they made jokes about it. Most of them had the manners not to get too cruel about their teasing and the ones who didn't learned their lesson quickly enough.

So, it was something of a shock when Mike wouldn't let it drop. 

It started out subtly enough. From the moment he entered the clubhouse, it was clear his usual grouch factor, always worse in the mornings for all he'd deny it, had been blown out of the water. The way he moved, stiff and hesitant for all he tried to hide it, Ginny assumed that he'd had another episode with his back and just needed a good session with Kiki and maybe a cortisone shot to get on top of the pain. She'd left him to it.

Which only meant that she only found out she was wrong when she spoke to him for the first time all day.

"Good to see you finally made it upright, old man," Ginny'd teased, having drifted close enough to Mike's post near first to field a lazy blooper into right. She tossed the ball to him with a grin. 

He grunted, not quite looking at her but not flat out ignoring her the way he did to goad her on, either. To be fair, he didn't need to pretend to tune her out to earn a reaction. Not when he sneered, "Glad you could drag yourself out of bed to join us."

Ginny afforded him one baffled glance but jogged back to the outfield to keep running down balls. 

That didn't even make sense. She'd expected him to make fun of the way she'd nearly gotten crossed up making that catch or the way she'd nearly pushed Blip out of the way for a fly ball. Not the bags she may or may not have under her eyes. And there was no indicator that it was just his parry in their routine trade of verbal jabs; no smirk, no sly look from the corner of his eye.

If it had ended there, Ginny would have been happy to shrug it off. Well, not happy exactly, but she would've been able to. 

If it had ended there, though, she wouldn't seriously be considering breaking something in her dressing room and earning herself a reputation. She was so frustrated, the thought was legitimately tempting. 

She'd be giving it more consideration if the litany of Mike's snide comments weren't swirling around her head, crowding out everything else. For someone who'd hardly even brought himself to look at her, he'd been paying an awful lot of attention to her every move.

"There's no one here you need to show off for," came after Ginny'd earned a few hoots and whistles for catching a high pop up behind her back.

"We can't just wait around 'til you're less distracted, Baker," was what he snapped the first time she let a line drive whiz by her.

"You sure you're not too tired to be out here?" he'd asked after he caught her hiding a yawn behind her hand. "Heard about that late night."

Like that, the jumbled bits of suspicion fell into place in Ginny's mind. Her cheeks burned and she'd ducked her head, hoping no one had overheard. Rather than come up and come up with something similarly acid to spit back, she'd walked off the field and straight into her dressing room. 

The privacy wasn't helping the way she'd hoped. 

Maybe because her humiliation hadn't been entirely public. Sure, it happened out in the open, where any number of their teammates or coaches could overhear. But as big an asshole as Mike had acted, he hadn't tried to drag anyone else into his vitriol. It wasn't much of a concession, but Ginny had to give it to him. He hadn't shouted any insults across the field, instead waiting until she'd drawn near. He hadn't tried to get anyone else to join in his shit talk, giving most of the team the cold shoulder. 

That didn't make it sting any less. Or excuse it or the rest of his bad behavior. Even though everyone was treated to Mike's scoffs and eye rolls and grim frowns, Ginny didn't think she was imagining that they fell disproportionately on her. Ordinarily, they probably wouldn't have gotten under her skin; that was just par for the course with Mike sometimes. He could be a grouchy bastard when he wanted to be, and she'd never really thought different. Generally, though, his grumpiness was tempered by a less-than-secret fondness: for the situation, the game, the team. For her.

Currently, it was hard to believe that Mike Lawson had ever been fond of anything.

Ginny could forgive Mike for sometimes giving in to the magnetic pull of a bad mood. It happened to everyone from time to time.

What she was less willing to overlook was letting some stupid rumor get him that way in the first place. 

He was better than that. Or she'd thought he was, at least.

She threw her glove hard into the back of her locker. The clatter of hangers and the half-hearted slide of a few jerseys to the floor wasn't nearly as satisfying as she wanted it to be.

"Get back out on the field, Baker."

Ginny whirled on the one person who'd think it would be a good idea to intrude on her self-imposed privacy. 

"I'm not talking to you," she snarled, though Mike didn't seem to care. He didn't shift an inch from his spot taking up most of the space in her open door, arms crossed over his chest, legs braced. He frowned, probably darkly enough to make someone who wasn't quite so enraged quake in their boots. Ginny didn't have that problem. Instead, she reached out and pushed against his solid chest, determined to get him out of her space. 

"'M not asking to talk, I'm telling you to get your ass back on the field," he replied, not even having the courtesy to rock with the force of her shove.

She didn't give in to the desire to scream, but it was a closer call than she liked to admit. "No," Ginny said, jutting her chin out defiantly.

"Baker, I'm your captain," he growled. The sick thing was, it—the sound and the intensity and the dangerous gleam in his eye—still made her quiver. And not from fear. "What I say goes."

"Fuck off, Lawson. I need a minute."

"Too fucking bad," he snapped back. "You need the reps. You're getting sloppy covering to your left."

That was absolute bullshit. Ginny could count the number of times she'd had to field a come-backer to her left on one hand, and she'd fielded every one of them cleanly. However, she also recognized that there was no amount of reasoning or cajoling or full-on yelling that would get Mike to budge.

So, she set her jaw and elected to do what she should have from the start of this weird interaction. Ignore him.

With as much dignity as she could muster, Ginny snatched her glove up from the back of her cubby, sucked in one steadying breath, and brushed past her latest disappointment to head back to the field.

She didn't hear his footsteps trailing behind her, but she did feel his angry, petulant gaze on her back all the way to the dugout.

 

 

When no call lit up her phone's screen that evening, in spite of the frosty silence that had stretched out between her and Mike the whole game, Ginny told herself that she wasn't disappointed. She told herself she wasn't disappointed as she drifted around the house—six months in it, and the place still didn't feel entirely hers—and distracted herself unpacking a few boxes she'd shoved into a closet rather than deal with. She told herself she wasn't disappointed as she sorted through piles of Nike shit she was probably supposed to have worn before now. She told herself she wasn't disappointed as she gave up in disgust and took herself to bed. It was probably the last thought she had as she fell asleep.

By some miracle, it wasn't the first thought she had when she woke up.

At that point, hours had passed, and a good—well, semi-okay—night's sleep could work wonders on even the blackest of moods.

As Ginny sipped her coffee from a machine capable of turning out something between sludge and faintly caffeinated water—truly, it was that terrible coffee maker at the Omni that finally made her get her own place—she felt like she could afford to be a little more philosophical about it all.

Her feelings were still hurt, pride and ego and something far more fragile smarting. There was no use in pretending otherwise. But it wasn't the first time he'd hurt her feelings and it probably wouldn't be the last. Mike could be a dick when he put his mind to it. When he didn't put his mind to it, even. He was human, and so was Ginny. She was fully capable of being an asshole right back. It happened. They'd apologize and move on. She was pretty sure they'd move on from this, for all it felt different from their usual shit talking.

That wasn't what bothered her. What bothered her was the fact that Mike had thought he had a right to be a dick about— Well, whatever he thought he was being a dick about.

It was true that they were careening down a path that would, one day in the not-too-distant future, lead to a place where Mike had some kind of right to be a dick about it. Then again, in that place, this kind of thing wouldn't be an issue. There would be zero ambiguity about just who Ginny took to fancy parties and who was taking her home. But just because they would get there eventually didn't mean they'd already arrived. There was a lot of time between now and the end of the season. 

Ginny shifted uncomfortably as she always did whenever she brushed too close to the thing she did her best not to think too hard about. It was one thing to let her imagination run wild when she was lonely and frustrated and in need of a little inspiration and another one entirely to imagine a future, an entire life together, all centered around one person.

Maybe she'd gotten more superstitious since her rookie season. Or maybe she just thought that it'd be easier on her if things didn't work out and she'd never put what she wanted into so many words.

Her philosophizing was interrupted by the unexpected chime of her doorbell.

Automatically, she frowned. There weren't many people who actually knew where she lived—for obvious reasons—but she doubted any of them were showing up on her doorstep at 7:30 on a weekday morning. 

Still, she went to answer. Maybe Amelia or Eliot had scheduled some kind of delivery and forgotten to tell her.

Rather than her regular UPS guy, though, Ginny was greeted by the sight of her captain standing on her doorstep, hat figuratively in hand. Literally, his hands were otherwise occupied. One held a paper takeout bag while the other fiddled restlessly with his keys.

Immediately, she folded her arms over her stomach. Somewhere in the back of her mind, gratitude that she'd already gotten dressed burst to life. While there was the familiar tingle of temptation—just wondering what Mike's reaction would be to her sleepwear and all the skin it displayed was enough to make her mouth go dry—now was pretty clearly not the time.

"What do you want?" she demanded, suspicion and residual vulnerability coloring her tone. 

"I brought you breakfast," he said immediately, like he'd anticipated her question and wanted an answer ready when she asked. He held up the bag, which proved to be from her favorite bagel place, for good measure.

As peace offerings went, it wasn't a bad one. Still, Ginny wanted to know: "Why?"

"I'm sure your fridge is empty."

He wasn't wrong. Even when he was being an asshole, he definitely knew her. Still, she didn't step aside to let him in.

Mike sighed. "Can we do this inside?"

"You didn't seem so concerned about privacy yesterday," she said, lips pursing. Apparently, however reflective she'd been over coffee, she still had plenty of annoyance left in reserve. "Or you wouldn't have run your mouth so much on the field."

Behind his sunglasses, his eyes were inscrutable, but Ginny had no problem reading the rest of his body language. His shoulders, sitting under what she knew for a fact was a sinfully soft button up, weren't slumped, but there was definitely tension there. He hadn't yet stopped thumbing at one of his keychains, a leather Padres logo that had seen better days. Even under the dark shadow of his beard, she could tell his jaw was clenched. Not stubborn, just serious.

She took all of it in but wasn't quite sure what it amounted to.

"I shouldn't have done that," he said. Which, it had to be noted, was not an apology.

Ginny snorted derisively, took his offering of food, and turned her back on the door. If Mike decided to come inside, that was his decision.

Something tight and uncertain dissolved away in Ginny's chest when she heard his footsteps and the latch of the door. Nonetheless, she continued on to the kitchen, already peeking into the bag to see what he'd brought her. Oh, was that an egg and avocado on an everything bagel? He really did know her.

Which was probably why it was so easy for him to be a dick to her, too. He knew exactly what buttons to push.

Not that Ginny didn't have a similar advantage. If there was one thing Mike hated, it was being ignored.

So, she busied herself in the kitchen, storing the extra bagels he'd brought—no such thing as overkill when it came to apology food—and pulling out an actual plate and napkin for her sandwich. She even topped up her coffee, making sure to cross to the fridge for half and half at an easy amble. It didn't take much time, but every second that passed, Ginny knew Mike was itching. Whether for her attention or just under the awkwardness of the situation, she wasn't entirely sure, but the fact that he was getting twitchy was enough.

Was it petty? Definitely. Did she particularly care? Not even a little.

Finally, having picked a post across the island—safer to keep her distance until she was sure of how this would play out—and just taken a generous bite of her sandwich, Ginny turned her attention to her cagey guest. She raised a single brow. He'd taken off his sunglasses and was doing a semi-admirable job of pretending to be at ease as he looked around. Although, maybe he wasn't feigning interest; he'd never been to Ginny's house before, had barely even seen the suite she called home for the first year in San Diego. Which—

"How'd you know where I live?" Ginny asked, once she could without treating him to a little "see" food.

"Told your social media guy I wanted to send a belated housewarming gift," he said, not even bothering to seem sheepish.

"You lied to Eliot to get my address?" Part of her wanted to be surprised. Most of her knew better. 

"Hardly even lied." Mike shrugged and pulled his attention away from the view out of her kitchen windows. "I did bring you bagels."

"Ooh, bagels," she drawled, slow and sarcastic enough to make his mouth twitch, almost a grin. Right up until she said, "Y'know Livan sent me flowers when I actually moved in, but bagels six months after the fact are good, too."

"Fuck Livan," Mike muttered, though not without feeling. Anything approaching amusement dropped off his face, leaving disgruntled disgust. "He's not even—"

"Shove it, Lawson. Tell me why you're here."

"I told you. To bring you breakfast." When Ginny leveled him with a deeply unimpressed stare, he sighed and slid onto one of the stools at the counter, looking tired. "Yesterday was— Yesterday wasn't good."

"You think?" she sniped, though she allowed herself to be quelled by Mike's sardonic glare.

"Hear me out, Baker. I wake up to my back trying to run away from me—that's the only way I can explain why it felt so wrenched out of place. Then, I go to work, knowing I'm gonna have to give up my start to the guy who's also taken my last All-Star Game slot."

It wasn't such a surprise that Mike was smarting over the All-Star announcements. Ginny thought he still had a chance at making the team through the player vote, which had to be a better tribute to his career, but could see why he wouldn't want to bank on that. It wasn't often that one team furnished both starter and backup for a position. Most teams couldn't boast both Mike Lawson and Livan Duarte, though.

"Then, to pour salt into those wounds, I get into the clubhouse and all my teammates are talking about your latest boyfriend—"

"My latest boyfriend?" she sputtered.

"—and the hot date you two went on last night. I couldn't even hide behind my phone because the pictures of you were fucking everywhere—"

"Poor you."

His lips quirked to the side again, acknowledging the hit, but he didn't seem like he was enjoying it. Then, quieter, less certain, he said, "You could've told me if you'd changed your mind."

"Changed my mind?" Ginny felt like she was just a parrot, repeating Mike's words back to him. It wasn't a great feeling, so she managed something semi-original. Something she wanted the answer to, at least. "About what?"

He stared at her, almost willing her to catch onto his train of thought. He cleared his throat when she refused to play ball, sheepishness finally setting in. "About that thing we're not talking about."

Ginny blinked and then blinked again.

 

For something they weren't talking about, she'd thought they were both aware of where the other stood on it. It appeared, though, that she was wrong. 

"I mean," he continued bitterly, like he was unaware of the way Ginny's entire world was being reordered, "I got the message, loud and clear—"

"Just stop," she cut him off, still trying to adjust to this new information. Was it even a surprise, though? Mike wouldn't be Mike if he were exactly as cocksure as he tried so hard to make everyone believe. "Because you clearly have no idea what you're talking about."

He had the gall to look offended, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest. "I don't, huh?"

"No, you don't. Because there was no message for you to get. I'm not dating that guy, I don't even remember what his name is." Mike's jaw didn't quite go slack, but Ginny watched it work side to side in thought. She looked down her nose at him, superior and unwilling to pretend otherwise. "You know we could've avoided all of this if you'd just admitted you were jealous—"

For once, Ginny was the one caught off. Not by some smart remark, but by Mike’s deep, full-throated laughter. He laughed so long and so loud that she nearly felt drawn into his amusement. If she weren’t so taken aback by his complete 180, she’d probably be giggling herself.

“What the fuck, Lawson?" she demanded, suddenly wrong-footed and hating it.

He wiped a hand across his face and sucked in a few breaths to calm himself. When he finally looked up at her, the amused twinkle that she'd been missing in his eye was back in full force. Mike chuckled once more before shaking his head. “Christ, rookie. You think I don’t know that? Of course I’m fucking jealous.”

For all she’d opened this can of worms all on her own, Ginny immediately backpedaled. “Mike,” she warned. 

“I know, I know. We’re not talking about it.” He sounded rueful but still fond. 

They’d been good all last season. If there’d been more than a few moments that Ginny couldn’t imagine sharing with any of her other teammates (and sometimes relived in the privacy of her own memory), what mattered was that they’d never crossed the line. They’d never discussed anything quite like feelings. Not explicitly anyway.

(The night of her second trade deadline, Mike had taken her to a driving range. To distract her from the stress—from the rumors swirling about her imminent trade to the east coast as well as her recent breakup—and also to take advantage of a little time together. They hadn't had much of that lately. When they'd both been dating other people, it just felt safer, less awkward, to limit their time alone. Now that they were both single again, not that either of them had acknowledged this was the reason, they were making up for lost time whenever they could.

Mike hadn't needed any help with his swing, but they were still having fun. Ginny wasn't sure she could've gotten her arms all the way around him well enough to demonstrate even if he had. Anyway, she had a pretty good view from her own tee box. 

They'd worked their way through two buckets of balls, mostly quiet, but sometimes sharing a joke.

Ginny was the one to push past that boundary. Between swings, she admitted to the quiet night air, "I can't imagine playing anywhere else. Don't know what I'd do without you."

"Good thing you're not going anywhere, then," he'd replied. "You won't have to find out.")

"We're not," she agreed. For all this was what she wanted, what needed to happen for the sake of their careers, it felt like another disappointment. 

 

He grinned, subdued enough that she was pretty sure they were on the same wavelength. “You were right," he said for maybe the first time, though Ginny didn't get much of a chance to revel in it, "that first season. The timing’s just not right. Not while I'm your teammate."

Suspicion flared to life. "Mike, don't tell me you—"

Cutting her off for once, he told her, "Don't flatter yourself, rookie." Though, the way he was staring at her was plenty flattering all on its own. Definitely enough to make her wish timing was the least of their worries. "My knees are shot and my back's on its way out, too. That's why I'm retiring. If there's a bonus to getting out of the game a little sooner than I'd planned, that's my own damn business."

"Your business," she repeated, raising an eyebrow.

"Well. Maybe one or two others, too."

There was nothing subdued about his grin, now. Ginny wasn't so used to a full-on Mike Lawson smile, no hint of smirking smugness, that she remained unaffected. In spite of the heat flooding her cheeks, she didn't look away. In something of a daze, she nodded. 

"When the timing _is_ right," he assured her, "I'll be here and we'll have that talk."

She nodded again, not trusting her voice to remain steady enough for verbal agreement.

Mike just kept grinning. "Eat your bagel, Baker."

Automatically, she took a bite. It'd gone cold, but who cared? Mike had bought it for her. It was still delicious.

 


	4. 111 - 51

"Baker, you joining us?"

Ginny hesitated on the threshold of her dressing room, tempted to pretend she hadn't heard. In spite of herself, she turned back to Sonny and the rest of the team as she considered. She wavered longer than she would have at any other point in her career, outside of that first rough week. Very carefully, she kept her eyes off her captain. 

Nonetheless, she could feel his attention. Not quite anchored on her, but definitely in her general vicinity. It was a feeling she'd, if not gotten used to, at least noticed more often lately.

Sure enough, when she chanced a peek at Mike from under the cover of her cap's bill, he was lingering nearby, chatting with a trainer. The way his head was cocked to the side, though, like he was keeping an ear open for her answer, sent a wave of uncertainty through her. Mostly because she had no idea what he wanted to hear. 

So, Ginny hedged. "I don't know. You sure this isn't a boy's night out?"

Even though she listened as Dusty and Salvi set into persuading her otherwise—which mostly consisted of them complaining that they got better service when she was with them—Ginny couldn't help but clock the way Mike's mouth pulled down in a faint frown. It didn't seem to have an effect on Kiki, who continued to go over Mike's current therapy regimen, but Ginny was pretty sure she didn't imagine it. Just like she was pretty sure she didn't imagine it when Mike's shoulders loosened and his forehead unwrinkled when she finally allowed herself to be coaxed into joining the guys.

"Fine," she said, suppressing a grin when her teammates whooped in victory. Anyway, Mike's grin, mostly hidden as he ducked his head, was a much better reward. "No need to beg."

When they eventually trooped out of the clubhouse, ready for a night on the town, she did make sure to fall into step beside Mike. Not only because they usually walked out together, but because there was only so much certainty reading his body language could give her. As they walked, the back of her hand brushed against his, bringing his last mound visit back into sharp relief. She thought her shower had been long and cool enough to banish the memory well enough for a night out, but she'd clearly thought wrong. Before she could let herself do something stupid, she pulled it away and stuffed it in her sweatshirt's pocket. 

He rolled his eyes. Ginny ignored him.

"Are you sure I should come?" she murmured, low enough that she doubted anyone could hear. Even if anyone could, she doubted they were paying attention. Any interest in her and Mike's conversations—anywhere, but especially around the clubhouse—had quickly fizzled when it became apparent 90% of their discussions were spent arguing the finer points of middle relief rather than anything even remotely scandalous. Carefully constructed blandness was a hell of a shield.

Mike gave her a baffled look. "Why shouldn't you?"

And that just about said it all. 

Where Ginny had gotten even more skittish when anything even approaching intimacy popped up, Mike had leaned into it. Or, more frustratingly, gone about his business as if nothing had happened. 

In spite of their discussion—if it could even be called that when they'd both agreed not to do any actual talking—before the All-Star Game, Ginny found that there wasn't much that actually _changed_ between her and Mike. They were still teammates and friends, so it wasn't like anything _could_ change, but she'd been prepared for things to fundamentally shift between them.

They did not.

He still had no problems telling her exactly when her arm fell out of its slot or she was being too stubborn about a particular strategy. He still sat next to her in the dugout, warm and smelling faintly of pine tar, and called her in to run batters as a trainer worked on his back. (It was never harder to remember that nothing had changed—yet, at least—as when Mike inevitably rolled over at the end of those sessions, shirtless and relaxed, and grinned up at her.) They still shit-talked each other's taste in movies, argued over the best strategy for striking out lefties, and traded meaningless stories in the early hours when everyone else on the team plane was asleep. Their teammates still rolled their eyes and migrated away when they started in on the comparative value of a good forkball over a slurve, but without any of the wink-wink-nudge-nudging that Ginny would've expected from people who'd clued into her and Lawson's deal. 

Not that she was even sure _she'd_ entirely clued into their deal.

It was a strange realization to come to, but one she couldn't keep running up against. Much as she didn't want to believe it, maybe they weren't on the same page. Maybe he could be casual now because that was all he wanted from her, something casual. The mere thought felt like a punch to the ribs.

Ginny had spent so much time convinced that even bringing up what they wanted from one another off the field would implode everything they'd worked for. Look what it earned her the last time they tried it: a blown out arm and months of grueling physical therapy. She'd worked so god damn hard to keep her personal feelings un-verbalized. The moment she admitted, to anyone other than herself, the magnitude of her desires, she wasn't sure she'd be able to compartmentalize it ever again.

Mike, apparently, didn't have the same problem. It was as if he didn't think anything had changed, where Ginny was still reeling.

If it seemed, from the outside, that nothing had happened between them, it was because of him. If Ginny'd had her way, she would still be avoiding him, doing her best not to let her feelings swamp her common sense. But since Mike had come into the clubhouse that very afternoon, only a few hours after he'd left her and two coffee mugs in her sink, sprawled gracelessly on the couch beside her, and immediately launched into a ridiculous recounting of his neighbors' ongoing feud, she'd never gotten a chance. 

Ginny glanced out of the corner of her eye as they continued through the halls of Petco Park, taking in his strong jaw and the slightly shaggy line of his beard. She was pretty sure he'd stopped trimming it, gearing up in the hopes of finally getting a real playoff beard going. It made him look a little rougher around the edges, more like the lumberjack his uniform of flannels and workboots hinted at. She didn't hate it. 

She also didn't feel too guilty for sneaking peeks at him like this. There were times, like earlier, when Ginny could feel his attention on her, longer and more intent than she did before that not-talk, but maybe that was just wishful thinking. Either because she wanted him to look or because she didn't want to be the only one. Every time she actually checked, though, from all the way across the field or dugout or bar or even the scant foot of space as they walked together, his own gaze was directed elsewhere.

And that was a good thing.

If she told herself this several times over every time it happened to make sure the message stuck, that was just an overabundance of caution. She wasn't about to trip up with the finish line in sight. Not when they'd gotten through three seasons without inspiring any gossip or speculation. Well, _much_ gossip or speculation. The internet was always going to see what it wanted to see. Nothing significant enough for anyone to bring up to their faces, anyway.

Occasionally, Blip would frown, his forehead furrowed in thought, as he studied Ginny and Mike. This usually happened, to be fair, when they were acting particularly— Ginny hesitated to call it touchy-feely, but she also knew what it had to look like. She couldn't exactly help it that Mike's shoulder was so comfortable to lean against as she ran through heat maps on the plane or that her own was the perfect height to make an armrest for him as they leaned up against the dugout fence. If Blip ever reached any conclusions, though, he didn't go to Ginny with them.

Once, she'd walked into the training room for a resistance band. Based on the sudden, tense quiet that descended between catcher and center fielder, it was clear she'd interrupted something. Something that probably had to do with her considering the way both men refused to make eye contact.

She raised a brow and waited, but when neither made any move to act like normal human beings, she just shook her head. Men. "Don't mind me."

They didn't, staring semi-belligerently at one another until Ginny left the room. A low murmur, too indistinct with the general buzz of clubhouse conversation to cover it, began as soon as the door shut behind her. 

She'd scoffed in disgust and ignored them both for the rest of the week. 

(By the end of it, Blip had appeared in her doorway. He sighed when she shot him an acerbic look, lips pursed. 

"Really with the silent treatment?" he asked, stepping into her closet without invitation and sinking into the free chair. 

She licked her lips, considering. It'd been much easier to freeze out Blip than Mike, if only because they didn't have joint strategy sessions with the rest of the pitching staff. Still, she'd missed him and the way he'd lift her up off the ground when he came in from a good at bat. Finally, Ginny decided to take pity on him. After all, he wasn't taking hits from two fronts; it was handy having Evelyn Sanders on her side. "Just making yourself right at home aren't you?"

He grinned, lopsided. "She speaks!"

"Thought you were more interested in talking about me than to me." 

Blip sighed again. "C'mon, Ginny—"

"You're not even gonna pretend that's not what you were doing?"

"Like you'd let me," he laughed. Ginny just scowled until he got back to the matter at hand. "If it makes you feel better, it wasn't _really_ about you." 

She had her doubts about that and let him know it. 

"It's true," Blip insisted, though she continued to look skeptical. He sighed. "I'll tell you what I told him. One: I might be the first one to notice, but I won't be the last. Two: Since my wife can't pump me for information I don't know, I don't want to know anything that's going on between you two."

"Nothing's—"

He cut her off with a single, unimpressed look. "Lawson said the same thing, so don't bother."

Ginny looked down at her lap and told herself she wasn't blushing. Out of embarrassment or guilt or anything else. It was a good thing Mike had denied anything was happening between them, not least because it was true. There was no reason for her gut to tighten upon hearing it.

"Was there a three?" she asked, eager to be done with this conversation.

"Three: Be careful."

She snorted. "That's it?"

Blip shrugged and pushed to his feet. It was only once he'd made it to the door that he replied, "There's a reason I went to Lawson with that one, you know." The perplexed look she gave him must have inspired him to elaborate. "You're one of my best friends, G. I worry about you. But I never worry about how you handle yourself in the tough spots. Same's not true for Mike."

He left her to mull that over. Not for long, because a bare moment later, his head popped back into her doorway. "Also, and please remember my second bit of wisdom when I say this, consider cutting the man a break. He's been awful to deal with lately, and I think we both know why."

If, on their flight out to Miami that evening, Ginny didn't pass by their captain to leave the seat next to him empty yet again, it only had a little to do with Blip's urging.)

But Blip was one of her oldest friends and closer to Mike than most of the other Padres. If anyone was going to notice something was up, it was him. Ginny tried to tell herself this was a comfort. Usually, she succeeded.

Nonetheless, it was only natural to minimize the opportunities anyone else had to clock a relationship that ran deeper than catcher and pitcher, so she'd scaled back on the team outings. Ginny couldn't help all the time she spent around her teammates in the course of the season; Between warmups and games and rain delays and travel time and a million other things, they lived practically on top of one another. Why open her free time up to even more scrutiny? 

Except, it was probably even more suspicious to ghost on the guys entirely, right? 

Well, no matter how it turned out, she'd made her decision for the night. Nothing she could do about it now. And besides, it'd probably be fine.

However, even as she parted ways with Mike in the player's lot—with what some might term a lingering look; it wasn't her fault his ass filled out his jeans so nicely—and headed over to Blip's ridiculous not-a-midlife-crisis car for a ride to the bar, she just hoped she wasn't lying to herself. 

 

 

Despite her initial hesitance, Ginny liked going out with the team. She genuinely enjoyed her band of overgrown kids. Some more than others, true, but they were a good bunch.

And they definitely knew how to celebrate.  

On evenings after she recorded a win, Ginny never had to pay for her drinks. Whether it was a teammate or a generous fan who picked up the tab, it was an electric feeling. She made sure to repay the favors—especially if someone had saved her ass with a good play in the field—and didn't take advantage, but it was a nice reward for a good game and an even better opportunity to promote team bonding. 

Also, and this was entirely selfish on her part, it was much easier to stay on top of all the team gossip when everyone was drinking. Alcohol, without fail, loosened lips, and most of the Padres weren't quite the heavyweights they claimed to be. 

So, if Ginny made sure to file away the fact that Salvi had figured out that his wife was pregnant again, before she'd made the realization herself, and that Laurel, one of the new relievers had accidentally slept with not just two but _three_ roommates on separate occasions but couldn't remember which was which, that was just playing smart. Just like noting Livan's sudden withdrawal from the groupie scene coincided with the arrival of Omar's very attractive cousin for an extended visit was exactly the kind of ammo a girl needed in a clubhouse that operated on favors, rumors, and grooming products.

Laughing as she extricated herself from the knot surrounding Sonny as he recounted his brush with perfection, Beyoncé herself—the story was already a year old and grew wilder every time he told it, but, without fail, Sonny brought the house down with his rendition of "Drunk In Love"—Ginny headed to the bar. Much as she loved that story, she didn't need to hear it for the fifteenth time. 

On the TV mounted between the shelves upon shelves of expensive liquor, SportsCenter was showing a replay from their game today. Specifically, her barehanded fielding play from the top of the fifth.

Ginny'd been clearheaded enough at the time, more focused on making the out than potential injury, that she could supply coherent answers in her post-game press debrief. She could remember the smack of bat on ball and the instantaneous realization that it would come her way. In spite of the way everything seemed to slow as the baseball skipped in the grass between her and the plate, hardly even losing any momentum, there wasn't time to get her glove around. Instead, she'd reached out with her bare hand and plucked it out of the air. The sting of impact hadn't hit her until she'd gotten rid of the ball, throwing to second and starting up a neat double play. 

Watching herself on screen, though, Ginny had to admit it looked more impressive than it'd felt at the time. 

At the time, though, she'd been a bit more preoccupied with the aftermath than the play itself. 

Almost before she'd even gotten her feet fully under her, Mike was beside her on the mound. She didn't get a chance to send him back to the dish before he was snagging the ball, fresh off its trip around the horn, and tucking it and his mitt safely under his arm

"Give that over," she snapped, ready to finish off the inning and get back to the dugout. 

"Let me see," he demanded in turn, one large hand skating from her left wrist to elbow to clench in her jersey's sleeve. Probably to keep her from wiggling away and putting any distance between them. Distance that Ginny desperately needed out in public as they were. While it was easier to remember certain realities when they were out in public, nothing about this was actually easy.

"Lawson, I'm fine," she hissed, futilely trying to twist out of his grip to get back to the game. Jesus. One barehanded nab and she was suddenly dealing with a mother hen. 

Yes, her entire hand stung. A lot. More than a lot, actually, but she'd made the play just fine. She could shake it off well enough for one more out. 

If only Mike would let her.

Which, of course, he wouldn't. Not before impatiently snatching her sore right hand out of the air. Relinquishing his grip on her uniform, he cradle it gently in his oversized palms. Somehow, impossibly, Mike had nice hands. Sure, a few of his fingers were crooked and his knuckles were almost always swollen, even when he taped them up before a game, but they were strong and sure and steady around hers. His skin was striped with calluses, born from hard work and dedication to the game, but still soft enough to make Ginny's skin heat as her traitorous mind wandered into territory better kept far, far from the field. 

Unless Mike happened to be into that...

Deceptively gentle fingers traced over her palm, pulling Ginny's mind out of the gutter and back into the game. She bit her lip, hoping she didn't look guilty as hell, but Mike was too busy seeking out any swelling or inflammation in her hand. He, as she could have told him, found none.

His breathing evened, which clued Ginny into the fact that it hadn't been in the first place. He even managed a grin, peeking up at her through eyelashes thicker and lusher than they had any right to be.

"You angling for a Gold Glove out here?" he asked, continuing to prod at her palm although he had to be satisfied it was uninjured. If they weren't in the middle of a game, Ginny would be tempted to let him continue, it felt so nice. "Not sure if it counts with no gloves involved."

"It's called fielding your position," she snapped, not as harshly as she might have liked. Mike Lawson's ability to make her melt was no news to her, but it was never much fun running up against the evidence of it. Particularly when there was a whole fleet of TV cameras recording their every move. "Which you'd know if you ever bothered to do it at first. I'm fine, just get back to the plate before Nelson starts yelling." Today's crew chief had a notoriously short temper for suspected plays for time, and Ginny didn't want to get on his bad side any more than an errant slider last season had already earned her.

"Gotta make sure you don't need the trainer," he replied, absent.

Ginny huffed and tried to draw her hand back. Mike's grip on her wrist tightened and he threw her an annoyed look. She sent one straight back.

"I told you," she said, lips pursing and too aware of the thousands of eyes on them at this very moment, "I'm fine."

"I heard you the first two times."

"And yet you're still here."

He rolled his eyes. "Forgive me if I don't automatically believe the woman who tried to play on a fractured toe—"

"I didn't try, I succeeded," Ginny argued automatically, as she always did when Mike dredged up that bit of ancient history. It happened two spring trainings ago! "And I didn't  _know_ it was fractured. Not for sure."

"But you suspected."

She shrugged, unwilling to make even that concession.

Mike just laughed, finally letting go of her hand. Much as she'd wanted him to do just that, Ginny found she was disappointed when the warm circle of his fingers disappeared from her skin. It felt like more of a loss than it should've been.

She shook off the feeling and held her glove out for the ball. 

"Satisfied, captain?" she drawled once he handed it over. 

Mike had the audacity to wink—on national fucking TV!—as he backed down the mound. "Not even close, rookie."

Oh, she was going to kill him.

Just as long as he didn't get her first.

As it turned out, watching the replay, the moment didn't stretch out quite the way Ginny had thought as she experienced it. There were a few tense moments as Mike frowned down at her palm, but they dissipated quickly enough as soon as the ball was back in her control. By some miracle, that wink hadn't been picked up by any of the dozens of cameras on and around the field, either. 

That was a moment just for Ginny. 

"Y'know, if all those commentators could hear how mean you are, I bet they wouldn't be quite so eager to sing your praises."

Ginny didn't jump at the sudden appearance of Mike at her side, mostly because it wasn't exactly sudden. She'd long ago accepted that her Lawson-radar was truly top of the line. It wasn't often that she didn't have some idea of where he was. 

"A) I have nothing on you when it comes to mean, Lawson." He scoffed, wounded, but it wasn't as if it wasn't true. Mike had a mean streak a mile wide when he wanted. Usually, he didn't mean it. Not unless he was talking to Livan. "B) It's not mean to tell you to worry about your own damn position. C) I'm pretty sure at least Dontrelle would agree with me anyway."

"That's 'cause he thinks you're cute."

"Then he just has good taste," she volleyed back, deep enough into her third beer to make her think it was a good idea. Ginny Baker might almost never get drunk in public, but she could definitely handle pleasantly tipsy. The fact that Mike's cologne, some deep, woodsy scent that went straight to her head these days, also curled around them probably didn't help her sense of discretion.

"Can't argue there," he murmured, so low that Ginny thought she might have imagined it. Since his next comment switched gears entirely, she wasn't quite sure if she had. "You getting tired?"

She thought about it. And in the middle of thinking about it, yawned. 

Mike chuckled, and Ginny couldn't help but join in. "I'm taking that as a yes. You want a ride home?"

For a million reasons, but mostly because she still wasn't absolutely positive about what Mike wanted from her, she should say no.

"Yeah, all right," she agreed. 

 

 

"How's your hand?" he asked for approximately the fifth time of the evening.

Since she was sure he'd bitten back the same question at least twice as many times, she gave him a real answer. There was also the fact that they were stuck in a car together, gliding through the moonlit streets towards her house and Mike probably had no problem with annoying the answer out of her if she elected to ignore him. He could do a truly terrible rendition of "American Pie" when he felt like it. "A little sore. But I'll live."

For whatever reason, he actually accepted her answer this time around. His brow didn't crease in worry. He didn't doubtfully glance at the slight swelling across the top of her palm. Mike simply nodded and let a comfortable silence descend. 

In no time at all, they'd pulled into the short, sand-littered driveway of her beachside cottage. Ginny was aware that "tiny house in a sleepy coastal town" did not scream "Major League ballplayer," but she loved her home anyway. And even though Mike had been there before, it felt different, more dangerous, to drive up together, the darkness curling intimately around them. 

"Thanks for the ride," she said, unbuckling her seatbelt before he'd even pulled to a complete stop. Anyway, she was eager for an escape so she could get inside and pick apart his behavior—as she'd done more nights than she wanted to count—in private. 

Except, Mike apparently had no intention of getting home himself. He unbuckled his seatbelt and clambered out of the car as Ginny did. 

"You walking me to my door?" she demanded, grateful for the dark and the way it hid the fire blooming across her cheeks. 

Mike shrugged, rounding the front to reach her side. "I'm out here, aren't I?"

"This was how they did it back in your day, huh?"

The implication of her words didn't catch up with Ginny's brain until they were out in the air, impossible to take back. If Mike realized, he didn't comment, just scoffing in faint annoyance. "It's still my day, Baker."

"You sure about that, old man?"

She was sure he rolled his eyes, but couldn't make it out in the darkness. Anyway, they'd arrived at her front door, so she busied herself with her keys and the alarm and dropping her bag on the floor so she wouldn't have to look into his face to say goodbye. Eventually, though, she had to admit she couldn't delay it any longer. It was that or invite him in, and that had to be about the worst idea she'd ever had. 

So, making eye contact and feeling prouder of herself than the action warranted, Ginny said, "Well, you've seen me safely to my door, so you can probably go now."

Mike chuffed a laugh. Rather than agree and take his leave, though, he caught her hand, like he wanted to give it one last look-over before he left. Close as he was, there couldn't be much to see; Ginny hadn't bothered to turn on any of the lights yet.

"Make sure you get some more ice on this," he instructed, his thumb tracing over the faint band of inflammation. It'd probably be bruised in the morning, but Ginny wasn't thinking about the pain as he continued his inspection.

"Told you, Mike," she said, maybe a little hoarser than usual. "I'm fine."

"Put some ice on it," he repeated. He didn't give up his grip on her, not even when she nodded her agreement. "Good. See you tomorrow."

"Thanks for the ride," she said again, impulsively wrapping her free arm around his neck. His own came up to brace across her lower back, tugging her in closer than she'd intended. Ginny didn't care. He was warm and smelled so good and it'd been a long time since she let herself hug him. Even one-armed, their hands still linked together, it felt as perfect as she remembered.

"Welcome," he murmured, drawing back after a long beat. 

Whatever slightly inebriated part of her mind had convinced her a hug was a good idea also suggested this: What's a kiss on the cheek between friends?

Her lips, when they landed, did not hit the dense growth of beard she'd aimed for. Not entirely, anyway. Whether it was her fault or his, she couldn't say, but half of her lips brushed against the wiry strands of his facial hair, and the other half clipped bare skin. Bare skin that certainly wasn't  _his cheek_.

Mike's lips pursed, shifting against hers—the most taunting imitation of a kiss she'd ever experienced—for a breath before he pulled away. 

There wasn't time to convince herself to look away before his gaze caught hers, steady and probing even in the dim light. Once caught, she had no chance of escaping. Not that she really wanted to. Whatever Ginny showed him, whatever he saw, it was enough to make her shiver as that intent look shifted to something even deeper, truer, and infinitely better.

When he leaned toward her, his breath hot against her skin, she knew that she wouldn't turn away, wouldn't stop him, because she wanted this. 

She wanted Mike to kiss her for real. Almost more than she'd ever wanted anything in her life. 

And then he didn't.

His lips pressed against her forehead, lingering intimately for only a moment before they were gone. 

"I'm not in any rush, Ginny," he murmured, words buzzing along her skin. 

_ What if I am?  _

She bit back the words. There'd been enough impulsive decisions tonight.  So, hollowly, she nodded. For all it felt like one, it wasn't a rejection. The sting was soothed by the squeeze of his hand around hers, gentle enough not to irritate her tender skin, but sure and strong nonetheless. 

"Timing," he reminded her as his thumb caressed her palm. "You and I both know this isn't it."

"I hate it when you're right."

"For once, I wish he weren't," he offered.

Ginny laughed, a touch brittle in the night air, but enough to make him grin. He took a step back. They didn't say anything else to one another before he was in the car, pulling away. She did lift a hand, sure that even though he wouldn't be able to make her out in the dark of her doorway, he'd still look back. Only when his car was completely out of sight did she step inside and shut the door.

 


	5. 147 - 15

In a perfect world, it would've been an easy glide from that night, wrapped up in each other and the shadows of Ginny's doorway, to the end of the season. 

She and Mike were indisputably on the same page at last. There weren't many doubts that Ginny could harbor, fall prey to, when they'd been pressed together, intimate and alone, for the first time since Mike had tried to get himself traded to Chicago. Then, it was easy enough to write it off as getting caught up in the urgency of the moment; he'd been scheduled to leave in just a few hours, obviously, emotions had run high. But this had been a conscious choice, deliberate and certain in a way that not even Ginny's anxieties could undermine. Worlds apart emotionally, and yet the way Mike's fingers had curled around her waist, like he didn't want to let go for anything, she couldn't help but connect the two occasions.

To be fair, it didn't take much to bring that night to mind. It'd been two years, but Ginny could still vividly recall the texture of Mike's shirt beneath her fingertips, the soft drag of her dress against her body as his hands swept from her ribs to her hips and back up, the puff of his breath against her mouth. More often than she liked to admit, she'd wondered about what would've happened if Mike's phone had been dead or she hadn't told him to take the call. It was a tempting path to meander down, especially on nights where she lay alone in bed with only her imagination and some battery-powered assistance for company.

Ginny'd picked up enough gossip and insinuation, even snuck a peek or two herself, to have a pretty good idea of what Mike Lawson was capable of in bed. The fact that her fingers and an over-worked pocket rocket didn't even come close to comparing wasn't the most frustrating part of this whole waiting game, but it certainly wasn't a walk in the park. 

And at least there was baseball to focus on. 

If Ginny was surprised that she was still going strong in September, she wisely did not mention it to anyone. Last season, even limited to a pretty conservative pitch count, she'd been shut down just one game into the last month. Had the Padres made the post-season, she would've campaigned hard to be reinstated, but their bid for the Wild Card had been snatched by a late surge in the East, so she'd never had to find out whether or not she'd be successful. 

She told herself that this year's staying power only had a little to do with Mike's impending retirement. Not only did she want to be in the dugout—or, better, on the mound—for his last game of the regular season, but she was pretty sure this was the year they'd go even farther. With the Padres at the top of the NL West, though the Rockies were only a few games behind, it seemed like Mike's last season wouldn't end in September. Like hell was anything going to keep her out of that action. 

So, Ginny took extra care in her exercise regimen. She didn't overtax herself during bullpen sessions or push for new personal bests on every run. She simply performed her tried and true routine, making sure to balance strength-training with cardio, stick to her dietician's meal plan, and get plenty of sleep. It was pretty boring, to be honest, but Ginny'd take boring and steady and in the rotation over a one-time thrill any day. Besides, it wasn't really possible to get bored when she was part of a Major League ballclub made up of Major League egos. 

Even if she'd gotten a refresher course on Mike's sheer magnetism and her own reaction to it sooner than she'd expected, if it was just a matter of buckling down and focusing on baseball, she could have dealt. In a perfect world, it would've been. In a perfect world, the last month of the regular season wouldn't have been any more difficult than any other. 

Of course, the world she lived in was far from perfect.

 

 

It was an unfortunate fact of her life that Ginny was used to walking into rooms where she was the topic of conversation. 

Sometimes, all talk halted the minute she appeared, leaving a queasy, guilty silence to hang in the air as everyone pretended nothing unusual was going on. Others, someone made sure to mutter something just loud and late enough that there was no question of her hearing. 

The worst, though, were the times when it wasn't her teammates or the front office or even strangers discussing her out of earshot.

The worst was when it was journalists. Because journalists, without fail, wanted to keep the conversation going. And they expected answers.

Ginny blinked at the cluster of microphones and recorders pushed into her face, almost before she'd stepped out of her dressing room and into the clubhouse proper. Plenty of phones were already held up, no doubt recording her every word and expression. 

She pasted on a bland smile and asked, "Y'all know I'm not playing today, right?"

There were a few chuckles, but it wasn't enough to stave off the reason they were all there.

"Ginny, any comment on reports that you and your captain are feuding?"

(Later, when Amelia combed through the videos from the impromptu interview—"An ambush is more like it," she'd snarl, adding each and every reporter to her shit list—she would note the infinitesimal pause before Ginny's answer. She'd note that though her expression remained impassive, she rocked away from the cameras, weight shifting onto her heels for a moment, and her knuckles went white where they gripped her glove. For anyone who didn't know Ginny Baker, they'd be tics easy enough to write off as mere surprise. 

Amelia wouldn't be so naive.)

It was Amelia and her thorough media training that Ginny thought of as she straightened, tipped up her chin, and answered, "I can't speak to any of those reports, but last I checked, the only thing Lawson and I are fighting over is whether or not I should've stolen second last week in Atlanta. Since I ended up scoring, there's not much for him to complain about."

That earned another laugh. Of course, it wasn't the end. 

"So, there's nothing to the rumors—"

Ginny's reply this time was less out of the Amelia Slater playbook than Bill Baker's. 

"I don't know what those rumors are, so I couldn't say. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to get to the field so I can warm up with the team."

She gave a terse nod to the gaggle of reporters and stepped forward. Whatever impatience she'd kept out of her tone clearly leaked into her posture. The group of reporters parted before her. 

As Ginny stalked through the clubhouse, she fished her phone out of her back pocket. While it was probably better if she didn't go digging around the internet for rumors about herself—she'd learned the hard way the dangers of a vanity search—she had to know what the hell was going on. So, she tapped out a quick message to Eliot and pushed through the double doors leading to the dugout. 

Most of the team was already there. If they had any clue that Ginny'd just been shaken down for comment on what would probably turn out to be trumped up gossip from Twitter, none of them showed it. Melky and Hinkley paused in their elaborate handshake to offer her identical, in-sync nods. Livan slung an arm around her shoulder as soon she'd made it with range. 

"Hey,  _mami_ ," he purred, drawing her into his side. "Come talk to me."

There was little doubt in her mind that he was all that interested in talking, though, in spite of what Mike said, Livan did make for an excellent conversationalist when he felt like it. Ginny had a feeling he liked having something to lean on so he could cock his hip and affect studied nonchalance for any potential photographers—from the Padres photography team to a kid in the stand with his mom's iPhone, Livan wasn't picky—at all times. That and the disgruntled look it usually put Lawson's face, which at least she could appreciate, too. 

Even in the middle of his BP, all he had to do was catch a quick glimpse of Livan practically lounging against Ginny for his mouth to turn down and his hits to start sailing deeper. Who said a hitter needed a clear head?

Ginny bit down on the grin that wanted to spread across her face, but it wasn't until she caught sight of another reporter—one who hadn't been in the crowd around her door—that the impulse died. The guy wasn't even paying attention to her or Lawson, too busy jotting down notes as he and Just talked infield coordination, but it left a sour taste in her mouth anyway. One that was strong enough to make her duck out from Livan's arm, avoiding Mike's glance as she did.

Once she was safely ensconced in the outfield, any and all catchers a comfortable 100 feet away at least, she let herself check her phone to see if Eliot had any updates on her latest PR snafu.

Because he was currently the only man who wasn't making her life significantly more complex, he did. 

 **Eliot**  
Tracked down source:  
orig posted on reddit.  
Then Deadspin picked   
it up, and... Well, you  
know.

 _Fucking Deadspin_ , she thought savagely, even as her fingers flew across the screen to pull the article up. 

"The Cinderella story of this baseball season has undoubtedly been the San Diego Padres and their unanticipated climb up the leaderboard. While they're expected to finish the regular season at the top of the NL West, they have faltered in the past few games, signaling a potential backslide into last year's disappointment. Exclusive, undisclosed sources have implied that this is partly due to clubhouse conflicts. Could this conflict have anything to do with the growing distance between retiring captain, Mike Lawson, and starting pitcher, Ginny Baker? Baker, 25, has not had the career that some may have hoped. Although the two were close in her rookie season, it seems things have gone downhill since..."

In spite of herself, Ginny read every word that followed. 

Scrolling through the neat narrative, every loose end tucked away and possible counterargument brushed aside, she had to admit it looked convincing. Which was fucking infuriating. While she could admit that her relationship with Mike had not been all smooth sailing—the last few months were proof enough of that—she objected to the implication that either of them would let a conflict spill onto the field, or, at the very least, affect their gameplay. In fact, the team's recent slump had only kicked in after that night Mike took Ginny home. 

(If she were more superstitious, Ginny would read something into it; she wasn't entirely convinced that Mike hadn't.) 

Then, to make matters worse, there were the pictures. 

As if the paragraphs on paragraphs detailing Ginny and Mike's alleged falling out weren't enough, the asshole who'd written them had compiled a slideshow of pictures to illustrate his points. Spanning from her rookie season to her activation from the DL last year to her paranoid avoidance just last month, they were almost more damning than the actual argument.

It didn't matter that Ginny herself—and anyone who'd bothered to watch a Padres game in the past two weeks—knew it was bullshit. She and Mike hadn't suddenly become attached at the hip, but it was clear they were plenty comfortable with one another. Just yesterday, he'd sat with his arm slung across the bench behind her shoulders, absently fiddling with the curly ends of her ponytail. She'd been torn between shrugging him off and sinking into the feeling, eventually opting not to call him on keeping his hands to himself. What was the point when she didn't want him to?

It was just her luck that the first time anything even approaching gossip about her and Lawson hit the mainstream media, it was so far in the opposite direction of the truth that she had no idea how to address it. Ginny’d spent a lot of time worrying about being crucified in the court of public opinion for falling for her catcher if the truth ever got out—there were contingencies for the contingencies—but she'd never thought to anticipate the opposite. Now that, apparently, her discomfort with Mike was sending the Padres into a tailspin, jeopardizing the team’s first shot at the postseason in years, she was drawing a complete blank. 

She really couldn’t win, could she?

Stuffing her phone back into her pocket, and thanking her lucky stars that no ball had come her way while she was otherwise occupied, Ginny couldn't help but scowl. Even when Mike caught her eye from across the field and tipped up his chin. Ginny nodded automatically back, but not even the slightly curious smile on his lips was enough to make her grin. She looked away before the wrinkle between his eyebrows could deepen or he decided he needed to come out and assess the situation in person. That he knew something was wrong wasn't up for debate; Ginny'd finally stopped denying that Mike knew her troublingly well. Two hundred-odd feet weren't enough to keep him from reading her the way he read every nervous pitcher from the batter's box. She didn't want him parsing it out before she'd gotten a handle on it herself. 

Not that she was even sure there was anything to get a handle on. 

Ginny didn't have much interest in readjusting her behavior for the sake of PR; as she'd proved, it didn't work. There were less than three weeks left in the regular season, anyway. In the long run, this stupid article wouldn't matter. The season would end and she and Mike would finally have that talk they'd been putting off for years and—

Well, she didn't like to count her strikes before the call, but Ginny had a pretty good feeling about this.

If she would just put her head down and do her work, she could make it through this season. Do better than that, even. This year, the Padres were going all the way to the top. Now wasn't the time to take her eye off the ball, not even for  Deadspin and their terrible fucking opinions.

 

 

Ten innings, four and a half hours, and one win later, Ginny still hadn't quite managed to smother her annoyance. 

The game had been a good distraction. It would've been better if she'd actually played, of course, but she was pretty sure she would've been scratched if she were on the slate today. Given the awkwardly probing questions Oscar had posed when he'd swung through the clubhouse before the game started, that was the impression Ginny got, at least. He hadn't looked reassured by her bland nonresponses, but since she saw the way Mike stalked away from his own tête-à-tête with their GM, coupled with Oscar's look of pained cheer, she figured she'd done the better job. 

For his part, Mike hadn't brought up the hit piece once all day. Which did not trick Ginny into thinking he hadn't seen it. Not with the way he pointedly took up a post right next to her at the dugout fence any time he wasn't on the field, making sure to turn to her and pass along such gems as: "Watch Warren's follow-through. Don't do that," and "D'you think Al'd let me play all nine positions in one game before the end of the season?"

Ginny'd snorted. "And risk you breaking a hip out in left?" Mike rolled his eyes, but she continued, "Even if Al does, Oscar wouldn't. Not with playoffs on the line."

"You say that like you think I'd cost us the game."

She'd chewed on her lip and fixed her eyes on the field. When Mike turned to her, clearly indignant, she hadn't cracked a smile, just glanced out of the corner of her eye and shrugged a little, halfway apologetic. "It's not like you're a textbook utility player."

"I could be," he muttered, frowning darkly enough to make Ginny giggle, just one quick burst before she schooled her expression again. His own mouth tipped up in response, and she went back to watching the game, her shoulder tucked comfortably against his bicep.

Arguably, Ginny could have kept that same easy flow rolling if she'd hit the bars with the team. For appearance's sake if nothing else, she probably should have. Still, she knew herself and knew that she wasn't yet ready to take even the good-natured teasing of the guys.

And, anyway, she'd been too tightly wound to get in her workout before the game. This way, she could avoid blowing up or hurt feelings and stay on track for her start in two days. 

Though she'd scaled back on her training intensity, Ginny hadn't kicked the habit of long hours at the gym, though she tended to prefer early mornings to late nights. It wasn't often that she got the clubhouse almost all to herself, and she wasn't going to sacrifice that bit of peace for anything. 

Of course, she wasn't the only one who enjoyed a bit of quiet after the chaos had departed.

"How're you feeling, Baker?"

"Good, Skip," she replied automatically, pausing in her leg curls to regard her manager. After blowing out her elbow that first season, she was trying to battle the reflexive instinct to keep the staff out of her business. For once, she had a team that wasn't actively looking for a reason to kick her to the curb; it was in her best interest to keep them in the loop. At least she was actually feeling good, physically at least, so it was no harm done. "How about you?"

He grinned, a little rueful. "Same as ever. Gettin' old's hard work."

"You're not that—"

He waved her off with a good-natured chuckle. "Nah, it's a good thing. Means I've been around long enough to do all the good stuff. Everything I ever wanted, really."

"Everything?" Ginny asked, more than a little envious.

"Well, all the things that ended up mattering," he replied, expression going a little distant, philosophical. "I had my Anna. Raised our family together."

"You played some pretty good ball, too."

He shrugged, unimpressed in a way that only someone who'd been involved in MLB, in some capacity, since the Vietnam War could be. "Sure, but you remember what I told you, right? Baseball's only the beginning. Can't be everything, not even for you."

She laughed. "It's not everything. I've got plenty on my plate."

"That's not what I mean, and you know it," he said, tart.

Ginny laughed louder, and he flapped a hand at her, shooing her off the machine. She obliged—she'd been in her cooldown, anyway—and trailed after her manager as he left the weight room. He led her into his office, sat her down on the couch, and pressed a cool bottle of water into her hands. Biting down on a grin—she'd suspected where Lawson got his mother hen tendencies, but it was nice to have the confirmation—she waited for Al to settle at his desk and begin passing over his bits of hard-earned knowledge. 

He'd done this several times this season, and not just with Ginny. Pretty much every player who passed through the Padres Clubhouse—and more than a few visitors if Al happened to get the chance—was treated to what Blip had dubbed "Al's words of wisdom." Sometimes his advice was baseball-related. Often it wasn't. 

Most of the team had their suspicions about why these meetings were happening, but neither Al nor the front office had yet confirmed. It made Ginny more than a little sad. The prospect of a season without both her first captain and first manager was bittersweet. They'd both done their best to prepare her for the bigs, make sure she'd keep playing long after they retired, but that didn't mean Ginny was looking forward to that eventuality.

"What's on your mind, Al?" she prompted when it seemed like he might be in danger of getting lost in his thoughts. 

He smiled at her. "Oh, lots of things. But for you—" He paused to consider his next words. Then, like he wasn't blowing a significant number of Ginny's assumptions straight out of the water, he said, "I want you to know that, in the long run, there's not much use in waiting around for the thing you already know you want."

"Al—"

He shook his head. "I know what I know, Baker, so don't bother denying it. This isn't a gotcha moment or me trying to embarrass you, just advice I'd give anyone in your shoes. And since it's only you..."

"Not only me." For all Ginny said it quietly, looking down at her knees, it was a challenge, too. An acknowledgment that this wasn't just some schoolgirl crush. Mortifying as it was to find out that her manager had cottoned onto something she thought she'd kept well under wraps, and even though he didn't seem too put out by his discovery, Ginny didn't want to be the only one at fault.

Al just snorted, startling her into abandoning the study of her leggings. He was grinning, both exasperated and fond. "You think I don't know that? I've known that boy since he was your age. Thirteen years. I know all his tells, and he knows mine. It's why we can't play poker together anymore."

"And you think he has a tell for"—Ginny groped for an appropriate expression, but gave up—" _this_?"

He put things more bluntly: "I know what Mike Lawson looks like when he falls in love, Baker."

She blinked and blinked again. Her gaze dropped back to her knees even as a flush built all along her cheeks and the back of her neck. It wasn't that she doubted the truth of it, but that something felt wrong about hearing it from someone else's mouth before it ever came from Mike himself. 

"We— He's— I—" She couldn't get anything more out, no matter how many words crowded her tongue.

Thankfully, Al took pity on her, his eyes softening. "Well, what do I know? I'm just an old man, right?"

Ginny huffed out a relieved laugh and stood on slightly shaky knees. "You know more than you let on," she replied.

"When you've been around as long as me, you learn that's the best way."

She believed him; there was a reason Al had weathered so many shakeups in the front office. But before she left—

"You know," Ginny said, hovering on the threshold of his door, "I didn't mean to—"

"No excuses, Baker," he said. "I don't care for 'em when they are necessary and won't hear 'em when they aren't."

"You sure this isn't a necessary situation?"

He scoffed. "Maybe not every coach would see it this way, but, yeah, I'm sure. Can't say I see the appeal of him, myself, but I can't blame you either. He's a good man, one of the best."

Ginny really couldn't disagree. She offered him a grin and ducked out of the office.

 

 

She went home because there was nowhere else she could go. Ginny wasn't exactly fit for company at the moment. So, she spent the rest of the evening drifting around the house, discontentedly rearranging knick knacks and generally failing to relax.

It should've been a weight off her shoulders, knowing that this thing with Mike, when it happened, wouldn't completely blow up in her face. There were still plenty of things that could fall through, but her place as a Padre wasn't one of them.

Nonetheless, Ginny couldn't convince herself that she wasn't missing something. Something obvious. 

While she racked her brain for the solution, she resolved to do something productive. Maybe she just needed a distraction to kickstart the epiphany that hovered just beyond reach. If all else failed, at least she'd have done something useful with her time.

She'd finally finished unpacking the last of her boxes last month, a mess of family photos that she'd taken from home the last time she visited North Carolina, but she hadn't done much with them. The bigger ones leaned against the walls where she wanted to hang them. The smaller prints, in a mishmash of uncoordinated frames, were stacked haphazardly on a spare corner of her dining room table. While she doubted that she could clear the whole thing—it'd become something of a landing pad for everything she wasn't quite sure what to do with, which was pretty much everything—Ginny could get the pictures squared away.

Ginny grinned at the topmost picture: a snapshot of her and Will during one of the rare Baker family vacations. They'd driven down to Disney World and even though Will was too old to really enjoy them, he rode the spinning teacups with her over and over and over again until she'd nearly thrown up. In the picture, she was still looking a little queasy, but her grin went ear to ear and her brother's matched. Will might not be a perfect brother, but he could be a good one. She placed the plain black frame in a free space on the bookshelf in her bedroom.

It was just as easy to date the next picture, but only because she'd been friends with the other subject for such a short period of time. Even from behind, there was no mistaking Jordan Collins. He stood with his arm slung easily around her shoulders as her head tipped back, no doubt losing her mind over a terrible impression stolen straight from _In Living Color_. A swift, bittersweet smile stole over her face before she went to clear some space in the living room, right next to a team photo from her first season with the Padres.

Most of the rest didn't require much thought. A pretty standard mix of family photos and slightly blurry pictures she'd taken with disposable cameras at baseball tournaments or around the neighborhood. None of them helped her figure out what niggling realization she had yet to make. 

Ginny set her last picture down with a bit more force than was strictly necessary. Apologetically, she straightened it out, fingers brushing lightly over the glossy frame. Under the glass, a younger Ginny stood, bat resting on her shoulder as she squinted into the sun, her dad kneeling at her side. Even though she couldn't have been much more than twelve, she remembered that day with stunning clarity. Bill had taken a break from coaching Ginny on her delivery to set her up in the makeshift batter's box they'd worn into the yard over the years. By the time she graduated, the grass had entirely ceded the ground, leaving a bare patch of dirt in the otherwise well-kept lawn; she vaguely wondered if it had finally grown in yet.

While her dad had finally given up on training her to hit lefty, he still insisted on going through batting drills every day, much to Ginny's general apathy. She was never going to be a slugger, especially not as her opponents kept growing, throwing too hard for her to truly keep up.

"Now why'd you let that one go by?" he'd demanded, having just given up an easy fastball straight down the middle.

Ginny remembered shrugging, tired and sullen and ready to go inside where dinner was waiting. "I had a 2-0 count. You told me to wait out a walk when I could."

Bill had nodded. That was true. There were lots of teams that were going to underestimate his daughter, let her get on base out of pity or a misplaced sense of chivalry. But that wasn't the lesson he'd wanted her to learn that day.

“You’re gonna see a lot of garbage out there, little girl. But every once in a while, that perfect pitch is gonna cross over the plate, and it’s on you to recognize it. That pitch is your blessing and you better not miss it when it comes."

After that, it had become a regular axiom in the Bill Baker School of Baseball: 

_Endure. Endure. Endure._

_We ain't done nothing yet_. 

_Don't miss your blessing._

There was no doubt in her mind that her father never meant any of his advice to apply to her love life. If Bill Baker had had his way, Ginny would never have realized that dating and kissing and romance was a thing that many young women experienced and enjoyed. Her life would have been baseball, baseball, baseball until she made it to the majors and well after, too.

Nonetheless, this was where she found herself, applying her dad's words to this tangle with Mike. 

Bill Baker might not have approved of her falling for a teammate, let alone one with so much experience on and off the field, but Ginny wanted to believe that he still would have been happy for her. That he would have been proud of the way she got herself through these past few years. That he'd still be proud when she decided to throw her code to the wind and kickstart something she should already be in the middle of.

And that, she realized with something like a thunderclap, was exactly what she wanted to do. She wanted to have that conversation with Mike and she wanted to have it now. Fuck timing and fuck what anyone might say. There was something good right in front of her; she'd have to be an idiot not to grab on with both hands and dare anyone to take it away.

Today had proved twice over that it didn't matter what she did. People were going to reach whatever conclusions they wanted regardless of how she acted, what choices she made to preserve her reputation. What was shocking was it'd taken her so long to figure this out. 

Maybe there was such a thing as waiting too long. Especially when waiting ran the risk of letting something good slip out of her fingers before she'd really experienced it.

Ginny blinked and tore herself away from her memories. Padding through the quiet house, relishing the ocean breeze wafting through the open windows, into her bedroom, she sank onto the mattress and considered her phone for a long moment. Then, before she could convince herself it was a bad idea, she snatched it off its charging station. 

In a blink, Ginny had it unlocked, her contacts on display. Right there, at the top of her Favorites was the name she was searching for. She tapped it and waited with bated breath as the call connected. Where she might once have worried about interrupting him—with the guys or on a date or in the middle of a night of getting away from his little duckling—there were no such thoughts now. If anything, this call was coming too late. 

"Lawson?" she asked once he'd picked up as she'd been sure he would. "I think— I think I'm ready to have that talk."

 


	6. 162 - 0 (+16)

In the past month, Ginny had learned several things. 

She had learned beer and champagne tasted better when it had sprayed through the air and dripped down her face before ever reaching her tongue. 

She had learned that however intense the regular season felt, the postseason was a different beast altogether.

She had learned what it felt like for her team to advance to the goddamn Major League World Series.

She had also learned that it was much harder to not kiss Mike Lawson now that she knew exactly how much he wanted her to.

(The low rumble of Mike's voice would've been much better if he'd been in the room with her instead of miles away in La Jolla, but it was still pretty good. Especially when he said, "Maybe it's wrong to say this over the phone—and don't think I won't say it every day from here on out—but I don't want to wait anymore. I love you, Ginny."

It was probably was a good thing he'd said it first over the phone. Otherwise, there would've been no holding Ginny back.)

Because even though she'd finally caved and had that talk that they'd been avoiding, they had both agreed that with so little time left in his tenure as a Padre, it would be better to wait as they'd initially planned. It might not put off much criticism when they went public—that use of when, not if, still stirred something deeply satisfying in Ginny's gut—but they would know that everything had been above board.

Just because they'd both agreed, though, didn't mean that either of them had to like it much.

Although, Ginny did privately think that maybe all this unresolved tension had had a positive impact on their on-field action. There were plenty of players who swore by a bit of a dry spell to give their game a boost. Maybe they were onto something: Ginny'd gone eight full innings in the Division Series and struck out ten in the Championship. Mike, meanwhile, recorded an impressive six home runs in only fifteen games and had just added another to his tally today. 

In Game Seven of the World Series. The _World fucking Series_.

This was really happening. She'd already pinched herself to double check.

Ginny didn't expect to make it on the field tonight. She was prepared to find a post at the fence and cling to every second of every play as they unfolded before her and told herself she was lucky to get that. (Ticket sales didn't hold quite the same sway when it was the World Series on the line; it was just Ginny's stuff that kept her on the roster. Which, she supposed, was a nice thing to know.) Much as she wanted to help her team win, wanted out of the dugout and onto the field, she was still a baseball fan. It didn't get much better than watching the game up close and in person.

But she  _really_ wanted to help her team win.

So, when Al turned to her in the fourth, frowning thunderously as he thought over his options, and sent her out to the bullpen just in case, she hadn't argued. Butch was at the end of his rope, and the rest of the relievers weren't much better off. Javanes still had his foot on the gas, but it was better safe than sorry. A fresh arm in the bullpen wouldn't hurt anyone.

Yes, there was part of her that wanted to stay in the dugout, so she'd be closer to the action if things went well and the Padres came out on top, but she didn't argue.

Now, she was glad she hadn't. Because even if she only had three major league saves under her belt, here she was, warming up on the mound of Game 7 of the World Series, looking to record the last out of the season and secure a historic Padres victory.

Every ball she threw, and it felt like her nerves dripped away until nothing was left. Resolve steeled in her gut when Mike strolled up from the plate to hand the ball off with one serious nod.

He didn't waste any time. "Trust your stuff, Gin," he murmured, barely loud enough to hear over the crowd. "It's gotten you this far." 

He'd said something similar before they'd taken the field for her last start, just four days ago. Then, he'd cupped her jaw in the tiny, curtained off area where she'd dressed with trembling hands, his fingertips curled around the shell of her ear. He'd also followed it up with another, "I love you," which was certainly one way to boost her confidence before she took the mound.

As he walked back to his position, that extra message remained unspoken, but Ginny still heard it loud and clear.

The broadcast would show a long duel between pitcher and batter, sweat dropping off Ginny's brow even in the cool October air. It would show Ginny falling behind early only to trick him with two quick screwballs on the inside corner. Five more pitches followed, each fouled off into the stands. One even clipped Mike's mitt as it flew by. 

In real life, it felt both longer and shorter all at once.

To Ginny, eight pitches were just a drop in the bucket. Maybe a few more than she liked to spend on one batter, but she could've kept going, all the way up to her record high if the hitter wouldn't drop from exhaustion first. At the same time, she wanted it to be over already. She wanted her save and a Padres win, even if it meant getting off the mound as quickly as possible. She'd had her World Series moment already. She didn't need to revel.

Not in this moment, at least.

So, when that last pitch spun off her fingertips, there was no regret that it was all over. Because there was no question in her mind. This ball was going nowhere but the back of Mike's mitt. 

She didn't need to hear the ump's call to break into a beaming grin. Still, the official, "Out!" was pretty damn good to hear.

It was hard to tell who hit the other with more force—Mike had the bulk, Ginny had the momentum off the mound—but they crashed together in the sea of grass between home and the rubber.

Later, Ginny wouldn’t be able to recall her leap into Mike’s arms, too buoyed by the roar of the fans and her own drumming heartbeat, but she would always remember his quiet grunt and the heat of his arms as he heaved her into the air without question, aching knees and back be damned.

For a moment, everything seemed to slow and stretch, a handful of seconds expanding into a lifetime. The absolute pandemonium of the crowd, their team, the world watching from home, seemed to quiet and fade away until it was just her and Mike.

She stared down at her captain and catcher, enthralled in a way that felt both foreign and like coming home. This was a man she knew like the back of her hand for all he did his very best to keep her on her toes. Most days, he succeeded, too. Now, his hair was dark with sweat, eyes wild with victory. Just as she locked gazes with him, though, that heady haze of revelry sharpened. Suddenly, Ginny was all too aware of Mike’s waist between her thighs, his broad shoulders beneath her arms. Hopefully, before the end of the night, she'd find herself right back here.

Like he could hear her thoughts, his grasp on her legs tightened, fingertips threatening to brand her with ten dark bruises before he'd ever had a chance to see the skin he gripped so hard.

Ginny didn't think she’d mind it if they did.

Rather than find out—or do something monumentally stupid like kiss him for the entire world to see—she offered Mike one dazzling smile. She watched long enough to see his face go awestruck and hungry and hot as hell before tipping her head back and thrusting one hand into the air, shouting out their victory.

The world around them roared back into focus. Ginny was pulled from Mike’s embrace, her legs releasing him only reluctantly, to perch atop the shoulders of her other teammates. They pushed her up into the air a few times, and it wasn't quite like flying, but she was pretty sure she'd never come closer.

When her cleats finally hit the ground again, voice hoarse with screaming and laughter, it wasn’t Mike’s face she looked up into, but Blip’s.

Which was almost as good.

Automatically, she threw herself into his arms, wrapping her own around his shoulders. If there was anyone she wanted to share this moment, this series, this win with besides Mike, it was Blip Sanders. Blip shook her a bit, shouting out his excitement. He'd had a pretty great game, too; a diving catch out in right center and an RBI triple in the fifth to tie up the game. They wove through the crowd—Padres, coaches, staff, media, families, and MLB brass all flooding the field to get in on the celebration—linked together. Someone shoved "World Series Champions" t-shirts into their hands, and in a blink, everyone was wearing them. They picked up Ev and the boys somewhere in the mayhem, and Ginny went through another round of giddy hugs. And then a few dozen more as she encountered teammates and coaches—Al was crying as she smacked a kiss to his weathered cheek and Livan lifted her off the ground yet again.

But none of them were from the man she wanted. 

Ginny didn't give up on finding her way back to Mike, but it was clear he was a pretty popular guy tonight. She was pretty popular herself, getting pulled into quick interviews with everyone holding a microphone. Presumably, Mike was busy doing the same. At some point, their paths should have crossed. 

It wasn't until Mike was being handed a trophy and the keys to a truck, though, that she finally got another good look at him. She pushed her way up to the barricade penning most of the Padres in, keeping them separate from their captain. No one objected, making space along the fence for her.

Someone had gotten most of his gear off of him and pulled his own "World Series Champions" shirt over his jersey, but he looked just as overawed as he'd been when Ginny'd been pulled from his grasp. He scrubbed a hand over his face before accepting the MVP trophy and shaking the Commissioner's hand. 

When another microphone appeared in his face and he was asked, "Mike, this was a long time coming for you. Why don't you tell us all how you feel?" he took a second to compose himself.

"This is a dream come true, and while I appreciate the hell out of it, this award is as much my team's as it is mine. I love all of you guys. Some more than others, yeah, but I love you." 

There was no mistaking the shimmer of tears along his eyelashes, but his voice was remarkably steady as he answered. There was also no mistaking the fact that his last comment was directed at one teammate in particular. 

Ginny didn't even care. 

She didn't care that they'd possibly just given themselves away. Both because she was a goddamn champion and the man she loved? He loved her back.

 

 

Somehow, Mike and Ginny made it through all of their post-game obligations and the team celebrations without sneaking off for a little privacy the way she was sure they both wanted. They soaked up more liquor in yet another champagne shower, Ginny taking the opportunity to snag a bottle or two so they could have their own toast whenever they did manage to extricate themselves from the raucous partying. 

Judging by the guys' adrenaline-fueled excitement, she had a feeling it would take a while. 

And it did. However, the clubhouse could only contain that concentrated triumph for so long. Once the beer and champagne ran dry, it was only natural for the Padres to begin peeling off to hit the showers. Whether they'd spruce up for a late night and early morning on the town, joining the reveling citizens of San Diego, or head home to their families and a quieter celebration was up to them. 

Ginny, for one, knew what she'd be doing.

First, though, she had to make sure she had a willing partner. 

It didn't take much convincing to draw Mike away from the festivities and into the semi-privacy of her dressing room. With the lights off, they were wreathed in familiar shadows even as the din of the party continued just a hall away. 

Despite the darkness, Mike's eyes gleamed as he looked down at her, lips parted. He no longer smelled like his woodsy cologne, too saturated in hops and bubbles for Ginny's nose to pick up anything different, but it didn't matter. She'd wanted him through the heat of 90º extra innings and the effort of keeping up with her workouts. A little alcohol wasn't going to throw her off.  

So she leaned up to him, beyond tempted to plant her lips against his and finally discover if Mike Lawson was as good as all the rumors said. She had a feeling he'd be better. The way his eyes fixed on her mouth, watching intently, hungrily, as it came ever closer, was nearly enough to convince Ginny to do it.

Nearly.

Instead, she turned her face just a fraction of an inch and let her cheek skate against his, the rough rub of half-washed away dirt and the bristles of his beard just another reminder that this really was Mike. It was his shoulders under her hands, his breath ruffling her hair, his fingers already curled into one of her belt loops, keeping her anchored close to him. Like she wanted to be anywhere else. Ginny only stopped when her lips reached his ear, close enough that he’d have to hear her, even over the rowdy celebration of their teammates.

“It's time, Mike.”

Judging by the look on his face when she pulled away, he was in complete agreement.

 

 

They both managed to keep their hands off of each other (Mostly. Mike’s hand remained in the small of Ginny’s back all through the cavernous halls of Petco Park and into the players’ lot, and Ginny didn’t give up her grip on his hand once he’d handed her out of the car in her sandy driveway.) until they were safely ensconced in her cozy little beach house.

For a second, they only stared, drinking in the sight of one another by the dim glow of the lamp she'd left on in the living room, but making no move to close the gap. Their fingers were still tangled together from their short walk in from the car. Ginny could swear she felt Mike’s pulse echo her own, almost loud enough to ring into the silent room.

Then, all at once, their uncharacteristic shyness was forgotten. Just as they had on the field, tonight and so many times before, they moved in tandem. In perfect sync, they stepped close to one another, Mike’s free hand slipping into Ginny’s hair as hers cupped his elbow. Without even thinking about it, their lips connected, sweeter than they could have dreamed.

Ginny quickly lost track of everything but the push and pull of her mouth, and then tongue and teeth, against Mike’s. It was an exploration more than a battle, an easy give and take that had her panting for more and eager to find out what he could do with that mouth elsewhere. 

She didn’t even notice that they’d somehow navigated through the house to her bedroom until the edge of her mattress bumped into the back of her knees. As she blinked in the dim light, her senses slowly returning, she realized that wasn't the only thing she'd failed to notice. At some point along the way, she'd lost her shirt and shoes, Mike's boots and belt probably keeping them company.

She huffed out a laugh, oxygen spilling into greedy lungs. There was no doubt that it was Mike, though, that made her head spin and cheeks flush.

It was a miracle they’d made it to the bedroom without tumbling to the floor. They were so wrapped up in one another—her arms tangled around his neck as he palmed her ass with both hands—Ginny would’ve wondered how they’d moved if all her energy weren’t spent on staying exactly as close to Mike as she currently was.

Which was a difficult prospect when he was trying to muscle an arm between them, his fingers skating between the tight band of her leggings and her quivering stomach. She finally gave in to curiosity and a lion's share of lust, loosening her grip on him just enough to allow him access. Those fingers worked their way into the waistband of her underwear, smoothing over her already damp curls.  

Ginny let out a groan, low and breathy, as two of Mike's fingers slid down her wet seam and slipped inside her without much resistance. She'd been wet and ready for him basically since he first said he loved her. (It'd been a  _long_ month.) Mike's forehead dipped to her shoulder, his breath gusting heavily across her mostly bare chest. The delicate lace of the bra she'd went and bought specifically to wear tonight didn't do much to conceal the pebbling of her nipples or the goosebumps that broke across her flesh, not that she would've wanted it to. Futilely, she rose and fell on her toes, trying to get Mike to pick up a rhythm, but he seemed content to let his fingertips rub against the walls of her pussy, the heel of his hand just a centimeter too low to grind into her clit.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” he murmured, and it shouldn’t have been—

“Shit!” Ginny gasped, back arching as Mike’s low growl cut straight to the pulsing, greedy center of her. 

God, it shouldn’t have been _so good_. Just one caressing pet name—okay, and the press of his body and the drag of his fingers and his taste on her tongue and, and, and—and she was ready to melt.

"Fuck, Mike," she sighed as he impatiently pushed her leggings down just enough to afford himself more room to maneuver. Which he took full advantage of as his fingers sank deeper, stretching her out in a delicious burn. Clumsily, she fumbled for his own waistband. Ginny couldn't quite get her fingers to cooperate well enough to flick his fly open and get a good feel for whatever Mike Lawson was packing. Through his jeans, though, she got the impression that there'd be plenty to keep her occupied.

She moaned at the mere thought. 

Determined to distract herself—Mike could tease her all he liked, she wasn't coming until she'd experienced that dick buried inside her—she craned her neck to the side, lips brushing against hair damp from the quick shower he'd taken in the clubhouse. He must've rushed because the lingering smell of champagne and beer still flooded her nose, an unfamiliar complement to his usual shampoo and body wash.

"You feel so good," he breathed, more than a little awestruck at her ragged, desperate whine, though he smirked when another one escaped her. Through her eyelashes, Ginny took in that smug expression, and, while she'd do everything under her power to wipe that look off his face under ordinary circumstances, the parts of her brain that were still her own to command doubted that anything about being in bed—or just near a bed, as it happened—with Mike Lawson, his thick fingers scissoring her open, qualified as ordinary. "Even better than I dreamed."

He shifted his weight then, clearly intending to continue his lips' path down, knees and back and long day apparently forgotten, but Ginny caught hold of his chin before he could get too far. Her fingers curled into the short strands of his beard as she tugged him back up.

Mike frowned down at her. If she hadn't already been in danger of combusting, between Mike's brick-oven bulk and his fingers still stoking a fire between her thighs, the accompanying low rumble of "I need a taste, Gin," would have done her in.

Cheeks flushed, she still managed to promise, "You'll get one. But fuck me first." Who cared if she sounded greedy or demanding? She needed the first time Mike ever made her come to be with his dick buried to the hilt inside her. She'd waited too long for anything else.

He didn't bother trying to argue. Instead, Mike surged forward to seal his lips against Ginny's, his tongue pushing against hers in what she hoped was just a preview of what was still to come.

They shed the last of their clothes in a heady rush, neither eager to be separated from the other for too long.

Still, Ginny got a chance to stare all she liked at Mike's broad chest up close and in person as her trembling fingers fumbled with his remaining buttons—she had a sneaking suspicion the others would be found scattered between the front door and here. And Mike couldn't take his eyes off the miles of Ginny's bare flesh as she shimmied out of her leggings and he whisked her flimsy bralette up and off and finally exposed her for his perusal. His hands landed, soft and reverent, on her waist, calluses dragging lightly enough over her skin to inspire another wave of goosebumps. Ginny repaid the favor, her own fingertips trailing across his shoulders and down his chest before hitting the button of his fly before she couldn't help herself any longer and raised onto her toes to kiss him again. She relished the press of her sensitive breasts, dark brown nipples already gone taut with anticipation, against his firm chest. It was made even better when he broke away and ducked down, pulling one nub into his eager mouth as he shucked his jeans and boxers. When his hands came back to her, trailing low over the small of her back and down the curve of her ass once more, she was struck with the realization that she was _naked_. In front of  _Mike Lawson_. 

This had to be a dream.

The rasp of his tongue around one nipple and then the other, better than she'd ever imagined, proved her wrong.

She really didn't mind. 

Ginny's head tipped back, helpless against Mike's onslaught, but not at all willing to make it stop. 

When Mike showed signs of trying to get his taste a little early again, she huffed out a laugh. 

"Later," she promised, drawing him up and winding her arms around his neck. 

"You sure?"

She simply nodded and let Mike crowd her down to the mattress, carried there by his weight and his hand splayed wide and warm between her shoulder blades. In turn, her fingers curled around the back of his neck, twining into the short strands of hair there. It kept him pressed against her, even once his strong arm was no longer holding her up

He didn’t seem to mind. His beard dragged against her skin, lips mapping a long, meandering path between her collarbone and the thrumming pulse point at her throat.

Sandwiched between the blankets and Mike’s bulk, she sighed dreamily. His hips fit perfectly into the space between her parted thighs, almost as if they'd been tailor-made for each other.

"I love you," she murmured.

Even as her hips shifted and dragged her slick pussy along the stiff curve of his cock, Mike's smile went a little lopsided and goofy. Exactly the way it had every time she'd told him this over the past month, like he still wasn't over the novelty of it all. Part of her hoped he never would. 

He dropped a sweet, lingering kiss to her lips and then her ear and neck, replying in kind between every one. Meanwhile, his hand skimmed from her arm to her hip to her knee, which he lifted to his hip in a less than subtle hint for Ginny to wrap her legs around him. She was more than happy to comply. Not that she needed the encouragement to keep it there, his hand stayed right on her knee, thumb sweeping up and down like he couldn't get enough of this skin-to-skin contact.

Which was pretty funny considering how their naked chests were currently pressed together and his hard cock kept brushing insistently at her wet folds.

Ginny whined when the head of his dick dragged across her clit again, both heavier and hotter than she'd ever imagined. Which made sense since Mike Lawson's dick was also _bigger_ than she'd ever quite imagined. She may have heard the rumors about Mike's... talents, but Ginny'd been pretty careful not to give them too much thought. She didn't want to let them color the way she viewed him in real life. Her own feelings and experiences with her captain were more than enough to contend with when it came to maintaining a veneer of professionalism.

But, God. Now that she knew the rumors had, if anything, downplayed the truth of the Mike Lawson Experience, Ginny was finally ready to say goodbye to her professional relationship with Mike.

Sure, she'd miss having him in the dugout, muttering uncomplimentary things about the ump's strike zone or trash talking their opponents. She'd miss stumbling across his latest place for a pre-game power nap in the clubhouse. She'd definitely miss the satisfied quirk of his mouth whenever she delivered a pitch right to his waiting glove to send a batter back to his dugout. Hell, Ginny would even miss Mike's overbearing advice and grumpy griping and teasing because it was all part of being his teammate, and she'd never been happier than when she was on Mike Lawson's team.

For the moment, though, she was too wrapped up in the first slick, heavy slide of his dick into her grasping pussy and all the things she did have—and would keep having, thank God—to worry about what she didn't.

Anyway, she was pretty sure they'd always be a team when all was said and done.

She groaned as his hips came to a stop, his shaft fully buried inside her. Their mingled, panting breaths were the only sound in Ginny's bedroom for a long moment. Beyond them, the distant crash of waves rolled on, but they seemed almost a world away.

Mike raised trembling fingers to push an errant curl away from Ginny's forehead and then skated them down to cup her cheek as reverently as she'd ever been touched. In the dim glow filtering in from the hall, his eyes were darker than she'd ever seen them, but Ginny could still make out her faint reflection there. She couldn't tell who looked more awed to be exactly where they were.

He leaned forward and her fingers dug into his shoulders, legs tightening around him, as the movement tilted his hips, the head of his cock burrowing an impossible inch deeper inside her. Ginny moaned straight into Mike's mouth, desperate for more of him. Just one thrust and she was already hooked. Mike better be making plans to do this every day for the rest of his  _god damn life_ , because otherwise, Ginny was pretty sure she'd lose her mind.

It wasn't until he laughed, sweet but unmistakeably smug, and finally began a slow, steady rhythm of in and out and _oh, god, put it back in!_ that Ginny realized she hadn't just been moaning her approval. She'd babbled out her every thought as it came to her, undoubtedly stroking Mike's ego in ways she'd find nearly impossible to reverse later. He'd never let her live this down. 

To quiet herself, even though there was no one but Mike to hear her—hell,  _because_ Mike was the only one to hear—Ginny busied herself with sucking a dark bruise onto the skin of his throat. It'd help distract her from the way he made her feel, full and hot and ready to burst out of her skin. That and there was some territorial part of her was a little too thrilled with the idea of marking him as hers. 

And it'd definitely be a mark. 

She was well aware that this bruise would be easily visible whenever they had to show back up for press engagements with the team, too high to lie under the collar of his shirt, but she’d rather Mike have to explain away a hickey than give him more ammunition with the way she couldn’t keep her moaning curses tucked behind her teeth.

Mike, evidently, disagreed.

"C'mon, sweetheart," he murmured as he dipped his head down, pulling his neck out of her reach. She couldn't really complain, though, since his mouth went straight to her heaving breasts, his tongue darting out to taste her nipple again. "Keep talking to me."

"More," she demanded, her hands falling down his back to grasp his well-muscled ass and encourage him deeper, harder, faster. Everything he could give her. "Gimme more."

Wordlessly, he hooked an arm under her knee, spreading her open and allowing him to slide even deeper. Ginny keened in response, feeling an orgasm just beyond her grip, ready to crest and crash and swamp her every sense. It was no surprise that it had come on so fast; she'd waited for this for a long time. 

This time could be fast. This was their first, and she'd always remember it, but it didn't have to be everything. Later, they'd have the chance to go slow, to tease and build and wring each other out and start from scratch when they were done. The next (and the next and the next) could be something else. 

"Mike," she gasped, wanting him to finish with her. 

"Close, Gin," he promised. 

And he was. With just a few thrusts, a few well-timed squeezes from Ginny, Mike was grunting, entire body going taut as a tightrope above her, the stuttering grind of his hips against her clit dragging her down with him. 

When she surfaced from the warm wash of pleasure, drawn out by Mike's sweaty bulk rolling off and out of her, Ginny wasn't quite sure what to think. She'd spent so much time planning and preparing for this moment, now that it'd passed, she expected to feel a little lost. 

She didn't.

She knew exactly where she was and exactly where she wanted to go. And if those plans changed, she at least knew who she'd have by her side. 

Speaking of which—

Ginny stretched and plastered herself against Mike's side. They were both sweaty, and soon, that would probably transform into an unpleasant stickiness, but she was too tired to care. She had Mike Lawson in her bed, pressed to every available inch of her bare skin; there was no way she was leaving that, even for something so necessary as a quick shower. Anyway, his arm was banded too tightly around her middle for her to dream of going anywhere. 

Not, of course, that she'd even want to.

 


End file.
